






'..'t'l "i Vi 




Class E^\2.2A 

Book P T) 

Copyright}!^ 



COFOUGHT DEJTOSm 



BRITISH POETS 

NINETEENTH CENTURY 

SEI,ECTlONS FROM 

WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, SCOTT, BYRON, SHELLEY, KEATS, LANDOR, 

TENNYSON, ELIZABETH BARRETT BR(^WNING, ROBERT BROWNING, 

CLOUGH, ARNOLD, ROSS'ETTI^ MORRIS, SWINBURNE 

EDITED, WITH REFERENCE LISTS AND NOTES 



CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE, Ph.D. 

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 



oh -o/X a/.).a ~<iko 



BENJAMIN H. SANBORN & CO., 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 



■9 






LiBRawv of OONQRFSS 

OCl 1 J 904 
^ 'ViovrfjTht Emrv / 

C».ASS ^ KXo. Na 

' COPY B 



Copyright, 1904, 
By CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE. 



A// rights 7-cserved. 



To M. E. H. 



\}j 



r 



^ 



PREFACE 

This volume makes no attempt to do what has ah-eady been so excel- 
lently done in Mr. Stedman's Victorian Anthology^ Ward's English Poets, 
and other similar collections. It is not a new Anthology of nineteenth 
century poetry. Instead of giving a few " gems," or " flowers " from each 
one of several hundred authors, it includes only the fifteen chief poets of 
the century. From each one of these, however, it attempts to give a full 
and adequate selection, sufficient really to represent the man and his 
work. 

The book has been plamied, primarily, to give in one volume all the 
material which should be in the hands of the student for a College or 
University course on the British poets of the nineteenth century. I have 
therefore tried to include, first, all the poems which would be given as 
prescribed reading in such a course ; and, second, a thorough guide to the 
use of a well-equipped college or public library, in connection with that 
reading. I hope the book may also be found useful for more general 
courses on English Literature, for which there is no other collection cov- 
ering exactly this part of the field ; and for any reader who wishes to pos- 
sess in one volume the best work of the chief nineteenth century poets — 
" Infinite riches in a little room." 

The selections are very full, and for the most part consist of complete 
poems. They are designed both to give all the best of each poet's work, 
and also (except for Mrs. Browning) to give some representation of each 
important period and class of his work. Long poems are usually given 
entire, and space has been found for Byron's Manfred, Shelley's Prome- 
theus Unbound, Scott's Mannion, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Chris- 
tahel, Keats' Hyperion, Tennyson's Guinevere and Morte d"" Arthur, 
Bro^vning's Pippa Passes, Mrs. Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, 
Arnold's Sohrab and Rustuyn, Morris's Atalantah Pace, etc., etc. In 
general, extracts from long poems are not given, except in the case of 
single cantos which are complete in themselves, like the last two cantos 
of Childe Harold ; or lyrics, such as the songs from Tennyson's dramas, 
or the Hymns to Pan and Diana in Keats' Endgmion, which, Avhen de- 
tached, make perfect and independent poems. An exception has been 

V 



vi PREFACE 

made in the case of Byron's master- work, Boii Juan, which of course could 
not be given in full, and which has been represented by long passages. 

The amount of space given to an author does not necessarily correspond 
with his relative importance or rank as a poet. Some authors can best 
be rei^resented by their shorter poems, while others — Scott, for instance 
and William Morris— could not be fairly represented at all unless one of 
their longer poems were given. Browning and Byron could not be repre- 
sented without some complete example of their poems in dramatic form, 
while Tennyson's drama does not hold the same relative importance in 
his Avork. Byron, in particular, cannot really be known except through 
his longer poems ; some example must necessarily be given of the series 
of Oriental Romances, which, with Childe Harold, won him his early 
fame ; at least one Canto of Childe Harold must be given complete ; an 
example of the great Satires must be known in the Vision of Judgment ; 
and finally the Avhole man is summed up in the different aspects of Don 
Juan. Wordsworth, on the other hand, has less space than poets of in- 
ferior rank ; but he is represented by a hundred complete poems, the lar- 
gest number given for any author. 

The selection of shorter poems has been made generously inclusive. 
For Browning, more than two-thirds of the Dramatic Lyrics, and more 
than half of the Dramatic Romances and Men and Women, as well as 
representative poems from the other collections, are given. For Keats, 
the entire contents (except one poem) of the volume of 1820 is given, as 
well as full representation of his earlier volumes and of the posthumous 
poems. I have included nearly eighty poems from Landor, and hope that 
this — I think the first — representative selection from his verse may serve 
to make his work as a poet more familiarly known, in the sheer beauty of 
its simplicity and condensation. No apology need be made, I hope, for 
the extent of the Shelley selections, since his Alastor, Lines Written 
among the Euganean Hills, Epipsuchidion, The Sensitive Plant, Adonais, 
etc., as well as the Prometheus Unbound, make his work take a large 
amount of space in proportion to the number of titles. For Rossetti, I 
have given more than two-thirds of the sonnets from the House of Life, 
as well as Sister Helen, The Streani's Secret, Love's Nocturn, The Bur- 
den of Nineveh, The King's Tragedg, and some thirty or forty of the 
shorter poems. 1 hope that the space devoted to him will be found to 
represent a true judgment of his great permanent value as a poet ; and 
that the same will be true of the still larger amount of space given to 
the poet most dift'erent from him, Matthew Arnold. 



PREFACE vii 

A principal feature of the \o\ume is the classified Jxefei-ence Lists. I 
have tried to indicate, for each poet, the standard editions, other import- 
ant editions, the best one- volume editions, the standard biography, the 
best brief biography, and all the important essays. The critical essays 
are usually classed in two paragraphs, and, throughout, the most import- 
ant books or essays are indicated by asterisks. 

The Notes have been made as few and brief as possible ; and critical 
comment, except that of the poet himself, or, in a few cases, of other 
poets, has been excluded from them. They give only essential fads re- 
garding the poems, or comment and explanation added by the poet him- 
self. 

The poems are arranged in chronological order under each author, ac- 
cording to the dates of writing when these are known, and in other cases 
according to the dates of publication. The dates are given after each 
poem, dates of writing being indicated by italic figures, and dates of pub- 
lication by upright figures. 

It is a pleasure to acknowledge the ready generosity with which critics 
and teachers have given their help in making the selections. My thanks 
are due, in particular, to Mr. Paul E. More of the JVeio YorJc Eoening 
Post, to Professor Stoddard of New York University, Professor Trent 
and Professor Odell of Columbia University, Professor Baker and Pro- 
fessor Sykes of Teachers' College, Professor Van Dyke of Princeton, 
and Professor Mott of the College of the City of New York. 

It can hardly be hoped that such a book as this will be entirely free 
from errors, especially in the reference lists and dates. Any corrections 
will be gratefully received. Most of the proof has been carefully read 
three timijs, but — as as my friend Ron sard hath it — Tit excuseras les f antes 
de Vimprbneur, car tons les yeux cV Argus n't/ verraient assez dair. 

CuKTis HiDDEjsr Page. 
Columbia University, 

September, 1904. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS^ 



WORDSWORTH 

PAGB 

List of References 1 

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW- 
TREE 4 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN O 

A NIGHT-PIECE 5 

WE ARE SEVEN 6 

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 6 

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 7 

TO MY SISTER 8 

A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE 

HILL ^. 8 

THE TABLES TURNED 9 

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE 

TINTERN ABBEY 9 

THE SIMPLON PASS. 12 

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. . . . 12 

THERE WAS A BOY 13 

NUTTING 13 

STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I 

KNOWN 14 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 

WAYS 14 

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN.. 15 
THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 

SHOWER 15 

A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 15 

A POET'S EPITAPH 15 

MATTHEW 16 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 17 

THE FOUNTAIN : A CONVERSATION. .. . 17 

LUCY GRAY ; OR, SOLITUDE 18 

MICHAEL : A PASTORAL POEM 19 

THE SPARROW'S NEST .. 26 

MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD. 26 

WRITTEN IN MARCH 26 

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 27 

TO THE SAME FLOWER 27 

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 28 

I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE 80 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 31 
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR 

CALAIS 31 

IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM 

AND FREE ; 31 

ON THE EXTINCTION OP THE VENETIAN 

REPUBLIC 31 

* The poems of each author are arranged in 
the end of each poem. 



PAGE 

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 32 

NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802 32 

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802. 32 

LONDON, 1802 33 

GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US 33 

IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF 33 

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY 33 

TO HARTLEY COIiERIDGE, SIX YEARS 

OLD 33 

TO THE DAISY 34 

TO THE SAME FLOWER 35 

TO THE DAISY 35 

THE GREEN LINNET 35 

YEW-TREES 36 

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 36 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 37 

STEPPING WESTWARD 38 

THE SOLITARY REAPER • 38 

YARROW UNVISITED 39 

ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.. 39 

TO THE CUCKOO 42 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 42 

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 43 

THE AFFLICTION OP MARGARET 43 

ODE TO DUTY 44 

TO A SKYLARK 45 

ELEGIAC STANZAS. SUGGESTED BY A 

PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE 45 

TO A YOUNG LADY 46 

FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED 
TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COM- 
MENCEMENT 46 

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 47 

YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO. ... 48 
NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S 

NARROW ROOM 48 

PERSONAL TALK 49 

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. ... 50 

TO SLEEP 50 

NOVEMBER, 1806 50 

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUB- 
JUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 50 

HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIJIS AT 

LEAST THIS PRAISE 51 

LAODAMIA 51 

YARROW VISITED 54 

TO B. R. HAYDON 55 

NOVEMBER 1 55 

chronological order. Exact dates will be found at 



IX 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



SURPRISED BY JOY— IMPATIENT AS 

THE WIND 55 

HAST THOU SEEN WITH FLASH INCES- 
SANT 55 

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EX- 
TRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND 

BEAUTY 55 

SEPTEMBER. 1819 56 

AFTER-THOUGHT 57 

MUTABILITY 57 

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 

CAMBRIDGE 57 

MEMORY 58 

TO A SKYLARK 58 

SCORN NOT THE SONNET 58 

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 59 

YARROW REVISITED 59 

THE TROSACHS 60 

IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT 

FROM HEAVEN 61 

IF THIS GREAT AVORLD OF JOY AND 

PAIN 61 

"there! " SAID A STRIPLING, POINT- 
ING WITH MEET PRIDE 61 

MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED 61 

EYES 61 

EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE 

DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 61 

A POET !— HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO 

SCHOOL 62 

SO FAIR. SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSI- 
TIVE 63 

THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY 

STREAMS .. 63 

SONNET : TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 63 

COLERIDGE 

List of References 64 

LIFE 66 

LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 66 

LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE 

CHANT 68 

LA FAYETTE 69 

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE 

OF RETIREMENT 69 

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 70 

_J:HIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON . . . ' 70 

KUBLA KHAN 73 

SONG FROM OSORIO 73 

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER . . 73 

CHRIST ABEL 8\. 

FRANCE : AN ODE 88 

FROST AT MIDNIGHT 90 

LOVE 91 

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE 92 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT 

ELBINGERODE 93 



PAGE 

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY . 94 

DEJECTION : AN ODE 94 

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE 

OF CHAMOUNI 96 

THE GOOD GREAT MAN 98 

THE PAINS OF SLEEP 98 

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 99 

SONG, FROM ZAPOLYA 101 

YOUTH AND AGE 101 

WORK WITHOUT HOPE. . . 101 

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 103 

PHANTOM OR FACT 103 

SCOTT 

List of References 104 

WILLIAM AND HELEN 1 05 

THE VIOLET 108 

TO A LADY 108 

THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 108 

CADYpW CASTLE Ill 

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 113 

HUNTING SONG 113 

MARMION 114 

SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE 0"ER. 159 
HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH 

ADVANCES ! 159 

CORONACH 160 

HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! 160 

BRIGNALL BANKS 101 

ALLEN-A-DALE 161 

HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY 163 

TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO 162 

WASTED. WEARY. WHEREFORE STAY.. 162 

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. . . 162 

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 163 

TIME 163 

CAVALIER SONG 163 

CLARION 1 63 

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL.. 164 

PROUD MAISIE 1 64 

TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE 164 

REBECCA'S HYMN 164 

BORDER BALLAD . , 1 65 

LIFE 1 65 

COUNTY GUY 1 65 

BONNY DUNDEE 165 

here's a HEALTH TO KING CHARLES. . 166 

BYRON 

List of References 167 

LACHIN Y GAIR 170 

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 170 

AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND 

FAIR - 171 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED 171 

THE BRIDE OP ABYPOS < . 173 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

ODE TO NAPOLKON BUONAPARTE 184 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 186 

OH ! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTYS 

BLOOM 186 

,THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. . 187 
SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BAT- 
TLE 187 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE'S NOT A 

JOY) 187 

FARE THEE WELL 188 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE BE NONE 

OF beauty's DAUOHTERS) 189 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, CANTO 

m 189 

SONNET ON CHILLON 206 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 206 

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 209 

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 210 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THEY SAY THAT 

HOPE) 212 

DARKNESS 213 

PROMETHEUS 213 

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 2U 

MANFRED 214 

to thomas moore 234 

from childe harold, canto iv 234 

from don juan 

dedication 240 

from canto i 

poetical commandments 242 

labuntur anni 242 

from canto ii 
the shipwreck 243 

HAIDEE . 244 

FROM CANTO III 

THE ISLES OF GREECE 249 

CONCLUSION OF CANTO III 250 

FROM CANTO I V 253 

FROM CANTO XI : LONDON LITERA- 
TURE AND SOCIETY 253 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 257 

IMPROMPTUS 270 

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE- 
TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 271 

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR 272 

SHELLEY 

List of References 273 

STANZAS — APRIL 1814 275 

TO COLERIDGE 275 

TO WORDSWORTH 276 

ALASTOR 276 

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 287 

MONT BLANC 288 

TO MARY : DEDICATION OP 

THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 391 



PAGE 

OZYMANDIAS 293 

ON A FADED VIOLET 293 

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EU- 

GANEAN HILLS 293 

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR 

NAPLES 296 

SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819 297 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 297 

THE INDIAN SERENADE 299 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 299 

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 299 

THE SENSITIVE PLANT 338 

THE CLOUD 343 

TO A SKYLARK 344 

TO (I FEAR THY KISSES) 345 

ARETHUSA 346 

HYMN OF PAN 346 

THE QUESTION 346 

SONG 347 

TO THE MOON 348 

THE world's WANDERERS 348 

TIME LONG PAST 348 

EPIPSYCHIDION 348 

TO NIGHT 357 

TIME 357 

SONNET : POLITICAL GREATNESS 358 

MUTABILITY 358 

A LAMENT 358 

TO (MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES). . 358 

ADONAIS 358 

LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAY FLY 

NOT 366 

WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLLING 

EVER 366 

SONGS FROM HELLAS 367 

THE world's GREAT AGE BEGINS 

ANEW 367 

TO-MORROW 368 

TO (ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN) .... 368 

WITH A GUITAR. TO JANE 368 

LINES : WHEN THE LAMP IS SHAT- 
TERED 369 

SONG FROM CHARLES THE FIRST 369 

A DIRGE 369 

KEATS 

List of References 370 

IMITATION OF SPENSER 372 

TO SOLITUDE 372 

HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF 

TIME 373 

KEEN FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING 

HERE AND THERE 373 

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY 

PENT 373 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 

HOMER 373 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH ARE 

SOJOURNING 373 

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET . . 374 

SLEEP AND POETRY 374 

AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE OPPRESSED 

OUR PLAINS 380 

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ 380 

ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 380 

ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 380 

ON THE SEA 380 

WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY 

CEASE TO BE 881 

FROM ENDYMION : 

PROEM 381 

HYMN TO PAN 382 

THE COMING OF DIAN 383 

INVOCATION TO THE POWER OF LOVE. 385 

ROUNDELAY 386 

THE FEAST OF DIAN 387 

ROBIN HOOD 388 

IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 389 

TO AILSA ROCK 389 

THE HUMAN SEASONS 389 

TO HOMER 389 

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 390 

FANCY 390 

ISABELLA ; OR, THE POT OF BASIL 391 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 398 

THE EVE OF ST. MARK 404 

ODE ON INDOLENCE . , 405 

ODE (BARDS OF PASSION) 406 

ODE TO PSYCHE 406 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN • 407 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 408 

ODE ON MELANCHOLY 409 

TO AUTUMN 409 

HYPERION 410 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 423 

ON FAME 423 

TO SLEEP 423 

BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE STEAD- 
PAST AS THOU ART. 433 

LANDOR 

/ List of References 424 

^-'GEBIR 425 

ROSE AYLMER . 428 

REGENERATION 429 

CHILD OF A DAY, THOU KNOWEST NOT. 430 
LYRICS, TO lANTHE : 

AWAY MY VERSE ; AND NEVER FEAR. 430 
WHEN HELEN FIRST SAW WRINKLES 

IN HER FACE 430 

lANTHE ! YOU ARE CALLED TO CROSS 

THE SEA 431 

I HELD HER HAND, THE PLEDGE OF 

BLISS 431 



PAQE 

PLEASURE ! WHY THUS DESERT THE 

HEART 431 

MILD IS, THE PARTING YEAR, AND 

SWEET 431 

PAST RUINED ILION HELEN LIVES... 431 

FIESOLAN IDYL 431 

FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 432 

UPON A SWEET-BRIAR 432 

THE MAID'S LAMENT 433 

THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON AND 

IPHIGENEIA 433' 

THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 436 

CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM ATHENS. 436 

SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 437 

LITTLE AGLAE 437 

DIRGE 437 

CLEONE TO ASPASIA 437 

ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 438 

TO WORDSWORTH 438 

TO JOSEPH ABLETT 438 ' 

TO MARY LAMB 440 

ON HIS OWN IPHIGENEIA AND AGA- 
MEMNON 440 

FAREWELL TO ITALY 440 

WHY. WHY REPINE 440 

MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL. . 440 

TO A BRIDE , 441 

LYRICS 

DO YOU REMEMBER ME? OR ARE 

YOU PROUD 441 

NO, MY OWN LOVE OF OTHER 

YEARS ! 441 

ONE YEAR AGO MY PATH WAS 

GREEN 441 

YES ; I WRITE VERSES NOW AND 

THEN 441 

WITH ROSY HAND A LITTLE GIRL 

PRESSED DOWN 443 

YOU SMILED. YOU SPOKE, AND I 

BELIEVED 443 

REMAIN, AH NOT IN YOUTH ALONE.. 442 

SOON, O lANTHE ! LIFE IS O'ER 442 

TO A CYCLAMEN 443 

GIVE ME THE EYES THAT LOOK ON 

MINE 442 

TWENTY YEARS HENCE 443 

PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE . . . 443 
ALAS, HOW SOON THE HOURS ARE 

OVER 443 

QUATRAINS 

ON THE SMOOTH BROW AND CLUS- 
TERING HAIR 443 

MY HOPES RETIRE 443 

VARIOUS THE ROADS OF LIFE 443 

IS IT NOT BETTER AT AN EARLY 

HOUR 443 

I KNOW NOT WHETHER I AM PROUD. . . 443 
THE DAY RETURNS, MY NATAl, DAY. . . 443 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

how many voices gaily sing 443 

to robert browning 443 

on the hellenics 444 

Othrasymedes and eunoe 444 

^^.iphigeneia and agamemnon 445 

x^THE HAMADRYAD 446 

ACON AND RHODOPE 450 

j>.MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY 452 

"^AESCHYLOS AND SOPHOCLES 454 

^ SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 454 

TO YOUTH 454 

TO AGE 455 

THE CHRYSOLITES AND RUBIES BAC- 
CHUS BRINGS 455 

SO THEN I FEEL NOT DEEPLY 455 

YEARS, MANY PARTI-COLORED YEARS. 455 
I WONDER NOT THAT YOUTH REMAINS. 455 

ON MUSIC 455 

ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER 

SISTER 456 

DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 456 

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 456 

ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY 456 

ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH 457 

heart's-ease 457 

the three roses 457 

lately our songsters loitered in 

green lanes 457 

^theseus and hyppolyta 457 

an aged man who loved to doze 

AWAY 458 

WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU SMILED. 458 
TO MY NINTH DECADE 458 

TENNYSON 

hist of References 459 

CLARIBEL 461 

THE POET 461 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT 463 

SONG : THE miller's DAUGHTER 463 

OENONE 464 

THE SISTERS 467 

THE PALACE OF ART 468 

THE LOTOS EATERS 472 

CHORIC SONG. . 473 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 474 

ST. AGNES' EVE 479 

YOU ASK ME WHY, THOUGH ILL AT 

EASE 479 

OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 479 

LOVE THOU THY LAND 480 

MORTE d'aRX'HUR 481 

DORA ; ■ . 484 

ULYSSES 487 

LOCKSLEY HALL 488 

GODIVA 493 

SIR GALAHA D 493 



PAGE 

A FAREWELL 494 

THE VISION OF SIN 494 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 497 

THE poet's song 497 

LYRICS FROM THE PRINCESS 

TEARS, IDLE TEARS 497 

O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING, 

FLYING SOUTH 498 

AS THROUGH THE LAND AT EVE WE 

WENT 498 

SWEET AND LOW 498 

THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON CASTLE 

WALLS 498 

THY VOICE IS HEARD THROUGH 

ROLLING DRUMS 498 

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WAR- 
RIOR DEAD 499 

ASK ME NO MOKE 499 

IN MEMORIAM 499 

TO THE QUEEN 513 

THE EAGLE 514 

COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 514 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 

WELLINGTON 514 

HANDS ALL ROUND 517 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.. 518 

THE BROOK 518 

LYRICS FROM MAUD 

PART I, V. A VOICE BY THE CEDAR 

TREE 519 

XI. O LET THE SOLID 

GROUND 519 

XII. BIRDS IN THE HIGH 

HALL-GARDEN 519 

XVII. GO NOT. HAPPY DAY . 520 

XVIII. I HAVE LED HER 
HOME 530 

XXI. RIVULET CROSSING MY 
GROUND 531 

XXII. COME INTO THE GAR- 
DEN, MAUD 531 

PART II, II. SEE WHAT A LOVELY 

SHELL 533 

IV. O THAT 'TWERE POSSI- 
BLE 533 

WILL 534 

ENID'S SONG (MARRIAGE OF GERAINT). 524 
VIVIEN'S SONG (MERLIN AND VIVIEN) . 534 
ELAINE'S SONG (LANCELOT AND 

ELAINE) 525 

GUINEVERE 525 / 

TITHONUS 535 

THE SAILOR BOY 536 

MILTON 536 

THE VOYAGE 537 

NORTHERN FARMER (OLD STYLE) 538 

THE FLOWER 539 

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 539 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

A DEDICATION 539 

WAGES 540 

from the coming of arthur 

merlin's riddle 540 

trumpet song 540 

the higher pantheism 540 

flower in the crannied wall. ... 541 

northern farmer (new style) 541 

england and america in 1782 542 

the voice and the peak 543 

lyrics from queen mary 

milkmaid's song 543 

low, lute, low 543 

montenegro 543 

the revenge 543 

the defence of lucknow 540 

RIZPAH 548 

SONG FROM THE SISTERS 549 

TO VIRGIL 550 

FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE 550 

EPILOGUE TO THE CHARGE OF THE 

HEAVY BRIGADE 550 

VASTNESS 550 

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 551 

FAR-FAR-AWAY 553 

THE THROSTLE 553 

THE OAK 553 

CROSSING THE BAR 553 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Lint of References 554 

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 555 

ROBERT BROWNING 

List of References 565 

SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 

HEAP CASSIA, SANDAL-BUDS 508 

OVER THE SEA OUR GALLEYS WENT. . 508 

PORPHYRIa'S LOVER. . ,/'. 509 

PIPPA PASSES 570 

CAVALIER TUNES. V 

I. MARCHING ALONG 592 

II. GIVE A ROUSE 593 

III. BOOT AND SADDLE 593 

THROUGH TH^ METIDJA TO ABD-EL- 

KADR... .^7 593 

CRISTINA. / // • • • '''^^ 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.T . . . 594 

MY LAST DUCHES^. . /. 595 

IN A GONDOLA . ./. ^ 596 

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.Ji 598 

RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI./. . . 602 
there's a woman LIKE A DEWDROP.. 602 

THE LOST LEADER. M. 603 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 

FROM GHENT TO AIX U. 603 



-^ PAGE 

earth's immortalities. 9. 605 

meeting at night. .^ 605 

parting at morning. .?r: 605 

SONG : NAY BUT YOU, WHO DO NOT 

LOVE HER C?- 605 

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD, 'ri . . . 605 

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA..^. . . 605 

TIME'S REVENGES. . .4 606 

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. ~/. 606 

PICTOR IGNOTUS 3 608 

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT 

SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH.^. 609 

SAUL.vS^. 611 

A woman's last word a 617 

EVELYN HOPE . . ./. ^ 618 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS , „-<•>. .618 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN TPIE QWY /. 619 

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S. .v..^. , 621 

OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. .'^. 623 

DE GUSTIBUS. ."f/ 626 

MY STAR . .9— 626 

ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. / 626 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA . .'. 628 

MISCONCEPTIONS. . . il-T. 629 

ONE AVAY OF LOVE. /. 629 

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE . / 629 

RESPECTABILITY. .'X 

LOVE IN A LlFE.Tr::;; 

/ ■■ 



LIFE IN A LOVE 
IN THREE DAYS 
THE GUARDIAN j^HOEL. 

MEMORABILIA. . .•3' 

POPULARITY \\^ . . 



630 

630 

630 

631 

631 

632 

632 

THE PATRTOT. ...>'>. 633 

A LIGHT WOMAN. ...''. 633 

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. . { . 634 

A grammarian's funeral. . .'7 635 

THE statue and THE BUST.'. . . / 637 

CHILDE ROLAND^TO THE DARK TOWER 

CAME . . .^. . ., 641 

FRA LIPPO LIPPI. .v> . .^ 644 

ANDREA DEL SARTO. . jiv* 650 

ONE WORD MORE. ...... .^ 654 

BEN KERSHOOK'S WISD6M. . . .'' 657 

AMONG THE ROCKS \ 657 

ABT VOGLER ,\\ 657 

RABBI BEN EZRA ^ \. ,^ 659 

CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. . . \ 661 

CONFESSIONS . . / '. 666 

YOUTH AND ART \ 666 

A FACE. :S 667 

PROSPICE i. ,^ 667 

EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSON AE .S*> . 668 
FROM THE RING AND THE BOOK 

DEDICATION , j 668 

HERVE RIEL ."^ , 669 

FIFINE AT THE FAIR 

PROLOGUE— AMPHIBIAN. ."^ .', 671 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XV 



-"PAGE 

EPILOGUE — THE HOUSEHOLDER. r*. . 67 1 

HOUSE . . V? _^ 672 

FEARS AND SCRUPLES., ^i 073 

NATURAL MAGIC. . .'X-r 674 

MAGICAL NATURE. -j^rT 674 

APPEARANCES . . . .•-$T 674 

EPILOGUE TO JHE PACCHIAROTTO 

VOLUME CJ 674 

LA SAISIAZ — 

PROLOGUE ^ . . 677 

THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 0— 

PROLOGUE 677 

EPILOGUE . 678 

TRAY -H 679 

ECHETLOS ^. . . . 679 

TOUCH HIM ne'er SO LIGHTLY. .Z? 680 

AV ANTING IS — WHAT ? rr 680 

ADAM. LILITH AND EVE. . . .Trt 680 

NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE.. «. . G81 
SONGS FROJI FERISHTAH'S FANCIES 

ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES. >. 681 

WISH NO WORD UNSPOKEN 681 

FIRE IS IN THE FLINT 681 

VERSE-MAKING WAS LEAST OF MY 

VIRTUES 681 

ASK NOT ONE LEAST WORD OF 

PRAISE 682 

WHY FROM THE AVORLD.. . ., 682 

WHY I AM A LIBERAL "V. 682 

ROSNY / 682 

POETICS rV. ^^ . . 683 

SUMMUM BONUM .•'.- 683 

A PEARL, A GIRL / 683 

MUCKLE-MOUTH ME(} .^ 683 

DEVELOPMENT O- •••tf <'84 

EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO ^A. 686 

CLOUGH 

Li^t of References 687 

IN A LECTURE-ROOM 688 

BLANK MISGIVINGS 688 

TO KU/MV 688 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS 688 

THE NEW SINAI 689 

THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 690 

BETHESDA (A SEQUEL) ." 691 

FROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE 

EN ROUTE 691 

ROME . 692 

THE PANTHEON 692 

ON MONTORIO"S HEIGHT 692 

THE REAL QUESTION 693 

SCEPTIC MOODS 693 

ENVOI 693 

PESCHIERA 693 

ALTERAM PARTEM 694 

IN THE DEPTHS 694 



PAGE 

THE LATEST DECALOGUE 694 

FROM DIPSYCHUS 

"THERE IS NO GOD," THE WICKED 

SAITH 694 

OUR GAIETIF.S, OUR LUXURIES 695 

THIS WORLD IS VERY ODD WE SEE. . 695 

WHERE ARE THE GREAT 695 

AVHEN THE ENEMY IS NEAR THEE. . . 695 
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 

AVAILETH 695 

EASTER DAY, NAPLES, 1849 696 

EASTER DAY, II 697 

HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE 698 

QUI LABORAT ORAT 698 

vnvoq avfivoq . . 699 

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 699 

AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN 700 

SONGS IN ABSENCE 700 

COME HOME, COME HOME 700 

GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 700 

COME BACK, COME BACK 700 

SOME FUTURE DAY 701 

WHERE LIES THE LAND . . '. 701 

WERE YOU WITH ME 702 

O SHIP, SHIP, SHIP 702 

THE STREAM OF LIFE 702 

WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS 702 

ITE DOMUM SATURJE, VENIT HESPERUS 702 

CURRENTE CAL AMO 703 

COME, POET, COME 704 

THE HIDDEN LOVE 704 

PERCHE PENSA? PENSANDO S' INVEC- 

CHIA 704 

LIFE IS STRUGGLE . "fOo 

SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 705 

IN A LONDON SQUARE 705 

ALL IS WELL 705 

ARNOLD 

LiM of References 706 

QUIET WORK 708 

TO A FRIEND 708 

SHAKESPEARE 708 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. . . 708 

THE STRAYED REVELLER 710 

MEMORIAL VERSES 713 

SELF-DECEPTION 714 

THE SECOND BEST 714 

LYRIC STANZAS OF EMPEDOCLES 715 

CALLICLES' SONG 719 

THE YOUTH OF NATURE 719 

SELF-DEPENDENCE . 721 

MORALITY 721 

A SUMMER NIGHT 721 

THE BURIED LIFE 723 

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON (JAR- 
DENS 724 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

THE FUTURE 734 

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR 

OF " OBERMANN " 725 

REQUIESCAT 727 

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 728 

PHILOMELA 741 

THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 741 

BALDER DEAD (SECTION III) 745 

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHAR- 
TREUSE 754 

FROM SWITZERLAND 

ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE 756 

TO MARGUERITE — CONTINUED 757 

THYRSIS 757 

YOUTH AND CALM 761 

AUSTERITY OF POETRY 761 

WORLDLY PLACE 761 

EAST LONDON 761 

WEST LONDON 762 

EAST AND WEST 762 

THE BETTER PART 762 

IMMORTALITY. .^ 762 

DOVER BEACH. .' 763 

GROWING OLD 763 

PIS-ALLER 764 

THE LAST WORD.. . 764 

BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE 764 

PALLADIUM 765 

A WISH 765 

RUGBY CHAPEL 766 

HEINE (FROM HEINE'S GRAVE) 768 

OBERMANN ONCE MORE 768 

ROSSETTI 

List of References 773 

MY sister's SLEEP 774 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 774 

AUTUMN SONG 776 

THE PORTRAIT 776 

THE CARD-DEALER 777 

AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848 778 

ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NA- 
TIONS 778 

MARY'S GIRLHOOD 778 

FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL 779 

THE SEA-LIMITS 779 

THE MIRROR 779 

A YOUNG FIR- WOOD 779 

PENUMBRA 780 

SISTER HELEN 780 

THE BURDEN OP NINEVEH 783 

MARY" MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF 

SIMON THE PHARISEE 785 

ASPECTA MEDUSA 786 

love's "iSfOCTURN 786 

FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 787 

PLIGHTED PROMISE 788 



SUDDEN LIGHT '. 

THE WOODSPURGE 788 

THE HONEYSUCKLE 788 

A LITTLE WHILE 788 

TROY TOWN 789 

THE stream's secret 789 

LOVE-LILY 792 

THE HOUSE OF LIFE 

THE SONNET 793 

LOVE ENTHRONED 793 

BRIDAL BIRTH 793 

love's TESTAMENT 793 

LOVESIGHT 794 

HEART'S HOPE 794 

love's LOVERS 794 

passion and worship 794 

the portrait 794 

the love-letter 795 

the lovers' walk 795 

youth's antiphony 795 

YOUTH'S spring-tribute 795 

THE BIRTH-BOND 796 

beauty's PAGEANT 796 

GENIUS IN BEAUTY 796 

SILENT NOON 796 

LOVE-SWEETNESS 797 

PRIDE OF YOUTH 797 

MID-RAPTURE 797 

heart's COMPASS 797 

HER GIFTS 798 

EQUAL TROTH 798 

VENUS VICTRIX 798 

THE DARK GLASS 798 

SEVERED SELVES 799 

THROUGH DEATH TO LOVE 799 

DEATH-IN-LOVE 799 

WILLOWWOOD, I-IV 799 

AVITHOUT HER 800 

STILLBORN LOVE 800 

TRUE WOMAN 

HERSELF 801 

HER LOVE 801 

HER HEAVEN 801 

love's last gift 801 

TRANSFIGURED LIFE 802 

THE SONG-THROE 802 

KNOWN IN VAIN 802 

THE HEART OF THE NIGHT 802 

THE LANDMARK 802 

THE HILL SUMMIT 803 

THE CHOICE, I-III 803 

OLD AND NEW ART 

ST. LUKE THE PAINTER 804 

NOT AS THESE S04 

THE HUSBANDMEN S04 

soul's BEAUTY 804 

body's BEAUTY 805 

MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS 805 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

HOARDED JOY 805 

BARREN SPRING 805 

FAREWELL TO THE GLEN 806 

LOST DAYS 806 

THE TREES OF THE GARDEN 806 

RETRO ME, SATH ANA 806 

LOST ON BOTH SIDES 806 

MICHELANGELO'S KISS 807 

LIFE THE BELOVED 807 

A SUPERSCRIPTION 807 

NEWBORN DEATH, l-II 807 

THE ONE HOPE 808 

THE CLOUD CONFINES 808 

THREE SHADOWS 809 

INSOMNIA 809 

CHIMES 809 

SOOTHSAY 810 

ON BURNS 811 

FIVE ENGLISH POETS 

THOMAS CHATTERTON 811 

WILLIAM BLAKE 811 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 813 

JOHN KEATS 812 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 812 

THE KING'S TRAGEDY 812 

MORRIS 

List of References 823 

WINTER WEATHER 824 

RIDING TOGETHER 825 

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 826 

SUMMER DAWN 827 

HANDS 827 

GOLD HAIR 827 

THE DEFENCE OP GUENEVERE 828 

THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 8.!2 

SHAMEFUL DEATH 833 

THE EVE OF CRECY 834 

THE SAILING OF THE SWORD 834 

THE BLUE CLOSET 835 

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS. . ... 836 

TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON. . . 838 

SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 838 

NEAR AVALON 838 

IN PRISON 839 

FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON 

TO THE SEA 839 

THE nymph's SONG TO HYLAS 839 

ORPHEUS' SONG OF TRIUMPH 840 

SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS. 840 

INVOCATION TO CHAUCER 842 

FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE 

AN APOLOGY 842 

atalanta's race 843 

SONG FROM THE STORY OF CUPID 

AND PSYCHE 854 

JUNE 854 



PAGE 

AUGUST 855 

SONG FROM OGIER THE DANE 855 

SONG FROM THE STORY OF ACON- 

TIUS AND CYDIPPE 855 

L'ENVOI 856 

THE SEASONS 857 

ERROR AND LOSS 857 

FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH 

THE DAY OF LOVE 858 

FINAL CHORUS 859 

THE VOICE OF TOIL 859 

NO MASTER 860 

THE DAY IS COMING 860 

THE DAYS THAT WERE 861 

THE DAY OF DAYS 861 

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE 862 

AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN 862 

ICELAND FIRST SEEN 863 

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH 864 

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 864 

SWINBURNE 

List of References 865 

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER 866 

CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN CALY- 
DON 

THE YOUTH OF THE YEAR 866 

THE LIFE OF MAN 867 

LOVE AND LOVE'S MATES 868 

NATURE 868 

FATE 869 

THE DEATH OF MELEAGER 869 

PINAL CHORUS 871 

SONGS FROM CHASTELARD 

MARY BEATON'S SONG 871 

LOVE AT EBB 872 

THE queen's song 872 

HYMN TO PROSERPINE 872 

A MATCH 874 

A BALLAD OF BURDENS 875 

RONDEL 876 

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN- 
DOR 876 

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 877 

LOVE AT SEA 878 

SAPPHICS 878 

DEDICATION (POEMS AND BALLADS, 

FIRST SERIES) 879 

AN APPEAL 881 

HERTHA 882 

THE PILGRIMS 884 

TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 886 

FROM MATER TRIUMPHALIS 887 

COR CORDIUM 888 

NON DOLET 889 

THE OBLATION 889 

A FORSAKEN GARDEN 889 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND cS90 

A BALLAD OF FRANCOIS VILLON 8!) I 

TO LOUIS KOSSUTH 891 

child's SONG 892 

TRIADS 892 

ON THE CLIFFS 892 

ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLE 

AND GEORGE ELIOT 899 

SONG FROM MARY STUART 899 

HOPE AND FEAR 899 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 899 

CHILDREN - 900 

A child's LAUGHTER 900 

THE SALT OF THE EARTH 900 

CHILD AND POET 900 

A child's future 901 

ETUDE REALISTE 901 

IN GUERNSEY 901 



PAGE 

A SINGING LESSON 902 

THE ROUNDEL 902 

A SOLITUDE 902 

ON A COUNTRY ROAD 903 

THE SEABOARD 90;i 

THE CLIFFSIDE PATH 904 

IN THE WATER 905 

THE SUNBOWS 905 

ON THE VERGE 906 

ON THE MONUMENT ELECTED TO MAZ- 

ZINI AT GENOA 907 

THE INTERPRETERS 907 

A WORD WITH THE WIND 908 

IN TIME OF MOURNING 909 

SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE DEATH 

OP ROBERT BROWNING 909 

INDEXES 911 



WORDSWORTH 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Tfir standard edition of Wordsworth is that edited by ** W. Knight, 
1882-188G, Poetical Works, 8 volumes ; Prose Works, 2 volumes. 

There is a good edition of the * Poetical Works, com])lete in 1 volume, 
with Wordsworth's Prefaces, published by The Macmillan Co. at $1.75. 

Biography 

*Ki^iGiiT (W.), William Wordsworth, 3 volumes, 1889 (the standard 
biography.) Wordsworth (Chr.), Memoirs of William Wordsworth, 2 
volumes, 1851. Hood (E. P.), Wilham Wordsworth ; A Biography, 185G. 
SvMi.vciTOx (A. J.), William Wordsworth ; A Biographical Sketch, with 
Selections from his Writings in Poetry and I'rosc, 2 volumes, 1881. 

* Myers (F. W. II.), William Wordsworth, English Men of Letters' A'e- 
Wes, 1881 (the best brief biography, with adecjuate criticism). Suth- 
erland (J. M.), William Wordsworth ; the Story of his Life, with criti- 
cal remarks on his AVritings, 1887. Encyclopti^dia Britannica, Words- 
worth, by Prof. W. Minto, Vol. XXIV, i)p. 668-676, 1888. Wordsavorth 
(Elizabeth), William Wordsworth, 1891. Gothein (M.), Wordsworth, 
sein Leben, seine Werke, llalle, 1898. Raleigh (W. A.), Wordsworth, 
1903. See also Lee (Edmund), Dorothy Wordsworth. 

Personal Reminiscences and Contemporary Criticism 

* Wordsworth, The Prelude, the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, etc. 

* Wordsworth (Dorothy), Journal, and Recollections of a Tour made in 
Scotland. * Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria ; Chap. 4, 5, 

14, 17, 19, 20, and especially 22. Coleridge (S. T.), Poems ; To 
William Wordsworth. Cottle (J.), Early Recollections of S. T. Coler- 
idge. SouTHEY (R.), Life and Correspondence : Chap. 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 

15, 19, 26, 32, 36. Talfourd (T. N.), Memorials of Lamb : especially 
Chap. 6 and 7. Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinluirgh Review, No. 21, 
art. 14, Wordsworth's Poems ; * No. 47, art. 1, Wordsworth's Excursion, 
a Poem ; No. 50, art. 4, Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstone : also in 
his Critical Essays. IIazlitt, (William), * JMy First Acfjuaintance with 
Poets ; The Spirit of the Age. Hunt (Leigh), The Seer, L, 204 : Words- 



WORDSWORTH 



worth and Milton. De Quincey (Thomas), Works, edited by David 
Masson ; Vols. II and III, Recollections of Wordsworth, etc. ; Vol. V, On 
Wordswortli's Poetry ; and especially Vol. XI, Wordsworth (Essay of 
1845) : Landor (W. S.), Imaginary Conversations ; Southey and Porson. 
* Robinson (IT. C.), Diary, passim (see Index). Proctor (B. W.), Auto- 
biographical Fragment. Mitfokd (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary 
Life. Carlyle, Reminiscences. Duffy (C. Gavan), Conversations with 
Carlyle. Mill (J. S.), Autobiography, Chapter V. Colerige (Sara), Me- 
moirs and Letters. Wilson (John), Essays. TAyLOR (H), Critical 
Essays on Poetry. 

Later Criticism 

Knight (W.), Wordsworthiana ; Selection from Papers read by The 
Wordsworth Society. Knight (W.), Studies in Philosophy : Nature as 
Interpreted by Wordsworth. Taine (H.), History of English Literature, 
Vol. IV. ** Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism, Second Series. * Stephen 
(Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. II. =* Morley (John), Studies in Lit- 
erature. * II utton' (R. IT.), Literary Essays. * Cairo (Edward), Litera- 
ture and Philosophy, Vol.. I. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Swin- 
burne (A. C), Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. Lowell (J. R.), 
Prose Works, Vols. IV and VI. Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters : 
Sir George Beaumont, Coleridge and AVordsworth. Woodberry (G. E.), 
Makers of Literature. Mabie (11. W.), Backgrounds of Literature: 
Wordswortli and the Lake Country. * Legouis (Emile), La Jeunesse de 
William Wordsworth, 1770-98: Etude sur le "Prelude." The same, 
translated by J. W. Matthews, with prefatory note by Leslie Steplien. 
Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. I: Wordsworth's Youth 
(on Legouis' book). Texte (Joseph), Etudes de Litterature europeene : 
Wordsworth et la poesie lakiste en France. Dowden (Edward), Studies 
in Literature : The French Revolution aiid Literature ; The Transcen- 
dental Movement and Literature. Dowden (Edward), The French Rev- 
olution and English Literature ; Essay V. Hancock (A. E.), The French 
Revolution and the English Poets. Darmesteter (J.), English Studies : 
Wordsworth and the French Revolution. Symons (A.), Fortnightly Re- 
view, 1902. Church (R. W.), Dante and Other Essays. Macdonald (G.), 
Imagination and Other Essays : Wordsworth's Poetry. Rossetti (W. M.), 
Lives of Famous Poets. Scherer (Edmond), Etudes, Vol. VII ; the same 
essay, translated, in his Essays on English Litei-ature. Shairp (J. C), 
Aspects of Poetry : " The Three Yarrows ; " " White Doe of Rylstone." 
Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy : Wordsworth, the Man 
and the Poet. Clough (A. H.), Prose Remains. De Vere (Aubrey), 
Essays, Chiefly on Poetry : The Genius and Passion of Wordsworth ; 
The Wisdom and Truth of Wordsworth's Poetry ; Recollections of 
Wordsworth. Hare (J. C. & A. W.), Guesses at Truth, Vol. II. Mas- 
sox (1).), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Stanley 



LIST OF REFERENCES 



(H. M.), Essays on Literary Art : Some Remarks on Wordsworth. Daw- 
son (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. ** Bagehot (Walter), Literary 
Studies, Vol. II : Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning. 

Algkr (W. R.), Solitudes. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. 
Bkimley (G.), Essays. Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English 
Poets. Brooks (S. W.), Englisli Poetry and Poets. Burroughs (John), 
Fresh Fields : Country of Wordsworth. Caine (T. H.), Cobwebs of 
Criticism. Cheney (J. Y.), That Dome in Air. Chorlev (II. F.), Authors 
of England. Courthope (Y. J.), Liberal Movement in English Literature : 
Wordsworth's Theory of Poetry. Devey (J.), Comijarative Estimate of 
Modern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry, Blake to Brown- 
ing. Fields (J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. Frothixgiiam (O. B.), 
Transcendentalism in New England. Giles (IL), Illustrations of Genius. 
Graves (R. P.), Afternoon Lectures : Wordsworth and the Lake Country. 
Hamilton (Walter), Poets Laureate. Haweis (II. R.), Poets in the Pul- 
pit. ITowiTT (W.), Plomes of the British Poets, Yol. II. Hudson (H. N.), 
Studies in Wordsworth. Ingleby (C. M.), Essays. Johnson (C. F.), 
Three Americans and Three Englishmen. Reed (H.), Lectures on British 
Poets, Yol. II. McCoRMicK (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Litera- 
ture. Macdonald (G.), England's Antiphon. Minto (W.), Literature of 
the Georgian Era. Mitchell (D. G.), English Lands, Letters and Kings, 
Yol. III. MoiR (D. M.), Lectures on Poetical Literature. Rawnsley 
(II. D.), Literary Associations of the English Lakes, Yol. Y. Robertson 
(F. W.), Lectures and Addresses. Rushton (W.), Afternoon Lectures, 
Yol. I. Saunders (F.), Famous Books. Scudder (Y. D.), Life of the 
Spirit in Modern English Poetry : Wordsworth and the new Democracy. 
SwANwicK (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their Age. Tuckerman (II. T.), 
Thoughts on the Poets. Winter (William), Gray Days and Gold: 
Lakes and Fells of Wordsworth. Whipple (E. P.), Essays and Reviews. 
Whipple (E. P.), Literature and Life. 

Memorial Yerses, etc. 

** Watson (William), Wordsworth's Grave. * Arnold (M.), Memorial 
Yerses, April 1850. Shelley, Poems: Sonnet to Wordsworth (arraign- 
ment of Wordsworth for apostasy to the cause of liberty). Palgrave 
(F. T.), William Wordsworth (in Stedman's Yictorian Anthology, p. 240). 
* Whittier, Poems : Wordsworth. Lowell, Poetical Words, Yol. I. 
Sainte-Beuve, Poesies : Trois sonnets iinites de Wordsworth. 

* An asterisk marks the most important books and essays. 



WORDSWORTH 



LINES 

Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands 
near the lake of Esthvvaite, on a desolate part 
of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. 

Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. 
The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Com- 
mon on which it stood, that ran parallel to the 
lake and lay open to it, has long been enclosed ; 
so that the road has lost much of its attraction. 
This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings 
during the latter part of my school-time. 

( Wordsworth'' s note.) 

Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- 
tree stands 
Far from all human dwelling : what if 

liere 
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant 

herb ? 
What if the bee love not these barren 

boughs ? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 

waves, 
That break against the shore, shall lull 

thy mind 
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

Who he was 

That piled these stones and with the 

mossy sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged 

Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling 

bower, 
I well remember. — He was one who 

owned 
No common soul. In youth by science 

nursed, 
And led by nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went 

forth 
A favored Being, knowing no desire 
Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst 

the taint 
Of dis.solute tongues, and jealousy, and 

hate, 
And scorn, — against all enemies pre 

pared. 



All but neglect. The world, for so it 

thought. 
Owed him no service ; wherefore he at 

once 
With indignation turned himself away, 
And with the food of pride sustained his 

soul 
In solitude. — Stranger! tliese gloomy 

bouglis 
Had charms for him ; and here he loved 

to sit. 
His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand- 
piper : 
And on these barren rocks, with fern 

and heath. 
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
Fixing his downcast e3'e, he many an 

hour 
A morbid pleasure nourislied, tracing 

here 
An emblem of liis own unfruitful life : 
And, lifting up liis head, lie then would 

gaze 
On the more distant scene, — how lovelj^ 

'tis 
Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it 

became 
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus- 
tain 
The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 

that time, 
When nature had subdued him to her- 
self, 
Would he forget those Beings to whose 

minds. 
Warm from the labors of benevolence. 
The world, and human life, appeared a 

scene 
Of kindred loveliness : then he would 

sigh, 
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
What he must never feel : and st), lost 

Man ! 
On visionary views would fancy feed, 
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this 

deep vale 



WORDSWORTH 



He died, — tliis seat his only monument. 
If Thou be one. whose heart the holy 
forms 

Of j'oung imagination have kept pure. 

Stranger ! lienceforth be warned ; and 
know tliat pride. 

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 

Is littleness ; that he. who feels con- 
tempt 

For any living thing, hath faculties 

Whicli lie has never used ; that tliought 
with him 

Is in its infancy. Tlie man whose eye 

Is ever on liimself doth look on one, 

The least of Natui'e's works, one who 
might move 

The wise man to that scorn which wis- 
dom holds 

Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 

Instructed that true knowledge leads to 
love ; 

True dignity abides with him alone 

Who, in the silent hour of inward 
thought. 

Can still sus^^ect, and still revere him- 
self, 

In lowliness of lieart. 1705. 1798.1 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

This arose out of my observation of the affect- 
ing music of these birds hanging in this way in 
the London streets during the freshness and 
stillness of the Spring morning.— ( Wordstoorth.) 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daj'- 

light appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has 

sung for three years ; 
Poor Susan lias passed by the spot, and 

lias heard 
Iri the silence of morning the song of 

the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails 

her ? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapor through Loth- 

bury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale 

of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst 
of the dale. 



1 Italic figures indicate the year of writing ; 
upright figures the year of puljlication. The 
dates for Wordsworth are taken from the biblio- 
graphical tal)les in Vol. VIII of Knight's edition 
of the Poems. 



Down which she so often has tripped 

with her pail : 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a 

dove's. 
The one only dwelling on earth that she 

loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : 

but they fade. 
The mist and the river, the hill and the 

shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill 

will not rise. 
And the colors have all passed away 

from her eyes ! 1707. 1800. 

A NIGHT-PIECE 

Composed on the road between Nether St owey 
and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect 
tlie very moment when I was struck, as described 
— '• He looks up — the clouds are split," etc. 
{Wordsivorth) 

" Wordsworth particularly recommended to 
me among his Poems of Imagination, Yciij 
Trees, waA a description of Night. These, ho 
says, are amongst the best for tlie imaginative 
power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry 
Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.) 

The sky is overcast 

With a continuous cloud of texture close. 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the 

Moon. 
Which through that veil is indistinctly 

seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls. 
Chequering the ground — from rock, 

plant, tree, or tower. 
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller while he 

treads 
His lonesome imth, with unobserving 

eye 
Bent earthward ; he looks up — the 

clouds are .split 
Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory of the 

heavens. 
There, in a black-blue vault she sails 

along. 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, 

small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark 

abyss 
Drive as she drives : how fast they 

wheel away. 
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree. 
But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant ; and the vault. 



ENGLISH POETS 



Built round b}^ those white clouds, enor- 
mous clouds, 
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
At length the Vision closes ; and the 

mind. 
Not undisturbed by the deliglit it feels, 
Which slowly settles into peaceful cabn, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 

179S. 1815. 

WE ARE SEVEN 

—A SIMPLE Child, 
That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
— Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
"How many? Seven in all," she said 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And wliere are they ? I pray you tell." 
SJie answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the church-j'^ard lie. 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the cliurch-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them witli my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! — I praj^ you tell. 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of VIS in tlie cliurch-yard lie. 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church-yard laid. 
Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be 

seen." 
The little Maid replied. 



" Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door. 
And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
I\[y kercliief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper tliere. 

■' The first tliat died was sister Jane ; 
In bed slie moaning la}'. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

" So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And, when the grass was dry, 
Togetlier round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with 

snow. 
And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go. 
And he lies by her side." 

" How many are j'ou, then," said I, 
•• If they two arein lieaven ? " 
Quick was tlie little Maid's reply, 
'• O Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are 

dead ! 
Tlieir spirits are in heaven ! " 
'Twas tlirowing words away ; for still 
The little Maid would have her will. 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 

I79S. 1798. 

SIMON LEE 

THE OLD HUNTSMAN ; 

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
CONCERNED. 

This old man had been huntsman to the squires 
of Alfoxdeu. . . . The fact was as nieniioned in 
tlie poem ; and I have, after an interval of forty- 
five years, the inmg'e of the old man as fresh 
before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. 
The expression when the hounds were out, "I 
dearly love their voice," was word for word 
fromhis own lips. (Wordsworth.) 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 



WORDSWORTH 



An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five and thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry ; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound. 

And hill and vallej' rang with glee 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days, he little cai'ed 

For husbandry or tillage ; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind : 

And often, ere the chase was done. 

He reeled and was stone-blind. 

And still there's something in tlie world 

At which his lieart rejoices ; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices ! 

But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, 

see ! 
Old Simon to the world is left 
In liveried poverty. 
His Master's dead. — and no one now 
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
Men. dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick ; 
His body, dwindled and awry, 
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
His legs are thin and dry. 
One prop he has. and only one, 
His wife, an aged woman. 
Lives with him. near the waterfall, 
Upon the village Common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces fi'om tiie door. 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer ? 

Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
Is stouter of the two. 
And, though you with your utmost skill 
From labor could not wean them, 



'Tis little, very little— all 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell. 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Reader. I perceive 

How patiently you've waited, 

And now I fear tiiat you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 
Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 
A tale in every thing. 

What more I have to say is short, 
And you must kindly take it : 
It is no tale ; but, should you think, 
Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 

One summer-day I chanced to see 
This old Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock tottered in his hand ; 
So vain was his endeavor. 
That at the root of the old tree 
He might have worked for ever. 

" You're overtEtsked, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my profi^ered aid. 

1 struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I severed. 

At which the poor old Man so long 
And vainly had endeavored. 

The tears into his eyes were brought. 
And thanks and praises seemed to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thouglit 
They never would liave done. 
— I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning ; 
Alas ! tlie gratitude of men 
Hath oftener left me mourning. 

179S. 1798. 

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY 
SPRING 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 

While in a grove I sate reclined. 

In tliat sweet mood when pleasant 

tlioughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 



BRITISH POETS 



To lier fair works did Nature link 
Tlie human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green 

l)ower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
And 'tis my faith tliat every flower 
Eujoj's the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
But the least motion which tliey made 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breez}' air ; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 

17'JS. 1798. 



TO MY SISTER 

It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter tlian before 
The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air. 
Which seems a sense of joy to jaeld 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field. 

My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done. 
Make liaste, your morning task resign ; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you ; — and, pra^'. 
Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for tliis one day 
We '11 give to idleness. 

No joyless forms shall regulate 
Our living calendar : 
We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
The opening of the year. 

Love, now a universal birth, 
From heart to heart is stealing. 
From eartli to man, from man to earth : 
— It is tlie hour of feeling. 



One moment now may give us more 
Than years of toiling reason : 
Our minds shall drink at ever}- pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make. 
Which they shall long obey : 
AVe for the j'ear to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed jiower that rolls 
About, below, above. 
We'll frame tlie measure of our souls : 
They shall be tuned to love. 

Tlien come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
AVitli si)eed put on your woodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We "11 give to idleness. 17'J8. 1798. 



A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND 
THE HILL 

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
Rushed o'er the wood with startling 

sound ; 
Tlien — all at once the air was still. 
And showers of liailstones pattered 

round. 
Where leafless oaks towered higli above, 
I sat witliln an undergrove 
Of tallest liollies, tall and green ; 
A fairer bower was never seen. 
From year to year the spacious floor 
Witli withered leaves is covered o'er, 
And all the year the bower is green. 
But see ! where'er tlje hailstones drop 
Tbe withered leaves all skip and hop ; 
There's not a breeze— no breatli of air — 
Yet here, and there, and everywliere 
Along tlie floor, beneatli the sliade 
By tliose embowering hollies made. 
The leaves in myriads jump and spring. 
As if witii pipes and music rare 
Some Robin Good-fellow were tliere. 
And all those leaves, in festive glee. 
Were dancing to the mlnstrelsv. 

1798. 1800. 

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 

" Why, William, on that old gray stone 
Tims for the length of half a day, 
Wliy, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away 't 



WORDSWORTH 



"Where are your books? — that light be- 
queathed 
To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
Up I up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

" You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none luul lived before j'ovi ! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
To me mj^ good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply : 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with our will. 

" Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Whicli of themselves our minds impress ; 
Tliat we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things for ever speaking. 
That nothing of itself will come, 
•But we must still be seeking? 

" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old gray stone, 

And dream my time away." 

1798. 1798. 



THE TABLES TURNED 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME 
SUBJECT 

Up !up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 

Or surely you'll grow double : 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your 

looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields lias 

spread. 
His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
( 'ome. hear the woodland linnet. 
How sweet his music ! on my life, 
Tliere's more of wisdom in it. 



And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

Slie has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
]\Iay teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 

Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous fornas of 

things : 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 

Come fortli, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 179S. 1798. 



LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE 
WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798. 

No poem of mine was composed under circum- 
stances more pleasant for me to remember than 
this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after 
crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was 
entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble 
of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line 
of it was altered, and not any part of it written 
down till I reached Bristol. It was published 
almost immediately after in the little volume of 
which so uuich lias been said in these Notes. 
(W<ir(!sinirth. The volume referred to is The 
Lifi-iriU Iktllads, as first published at Bristol by 
Cottle.) 

Five years have past ; five summers, 

with the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their moun- 
tain-springs 
With a soft inland murmur.^ — Once 

again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliflfs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and 

connect 
Tlie landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
Tlie day is come when I again repose 

' The river is not affected by the tides a few 
miles above Tiuteru. 



BRITISH POETS 



Here, under this dark sycamore, and 

view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these 

orchard-tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe 

fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose 

themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I 

see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, 

little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild : tliese pas- 
toral farms. 
Green to tlie very door ; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the 

trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might 

seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless 

woods. 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his 

fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been 

to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the 

din 
Of towns and cities. I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in tlie blood, and felt along the 

heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With trancpiil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, per- 
haps. 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I 

trust. 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed 

mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In whicli the heavy and the weary 

weight 
Of all this unintelligible world. 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed 

mood. 
In which the affections gently lead us 

on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human 

blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 



In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the 

power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of J03', 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
In darkness and ainid the many shapes 
Of joyle-ss daylight ; when the fretful 

stir 
Unprofitable, and tlie fever of the world, 
H^ave hung upon the beatings of my 

heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to 

thee. 

.sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro" the 

woods. 
How often lias my spirit turned to thee ! 
And now, witli gleams of half-extin- 
guished thouglit. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
Tlie picture of the mind revives again : 
While liere I stand, not only with the 

sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thougiits 
That in this moment there is life and 

food 
For future years. And so I dare to 

hope. 
Though changed.no doubt, from what I 

was wlien first 

1 came among these hills; when like a 

roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the 

sides 
Of tlie deep rivers, and the lonely 

streams. 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, 

than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For 

nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish 

days, 
And their glad animal movements all 

gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cata- 
ract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall 

rock. 
The moiuitain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then 

to me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm. 



WORDSWORTH 



By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time 

is past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other 

gifts 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would 

believe. 
Abundant recompense. For I have 

learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- 
times 
The still, sad music of humanity. 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have 

felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the 

joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeplj' inter- 
fused. 
Wliose dwelling is the light of setting 

suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of 

man ; 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all 

thought. 
And rolls througliall things. Therefore 

am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains ; and of all that we be- 
hold 
P'rom this green earth ; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye, and ear, — botli what they half 

create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to 

recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 

nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, 

and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the 

more 
Sviffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the 

banks 
Of this fair river ; thou my dearest 

Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice 

I catch 



The language of my former heart, and 

read 
My former pleasures in the shooting 

lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oli ! yet a little 

while 
Miiy I behold in tliee what I was once. 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 

make. 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
Tlie heart that loved her ; 'tis her privi- 
lege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With loftj^ thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor 

all 
The dreary intercourse of dailj' life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we 

behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 

moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be 

free 
To blow against thee : and , in after years. 
When these wild ecstasies shall be 

matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; wlien thy mind 
Siiall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; 

oil ! then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with what heal- 
ing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt tliou remember me. 
And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- 

cliance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful 

stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 
With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for- 
get, 



BRITISH POETS 



That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape, were 

to nie 
More dear, both for themselves and for 

thy sake ! 17DS. 1798. 

THE SIMPLON PASS 

Brook and road 



Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy 

Pass, 
And with them did we journey several 

hours 
At a slow step. The immeasurable 

height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed. 
The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
And in the narrow rent, at every turn. 
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and 

forlorn , 
The torrents shooting from the clear 

blue sky. 
The rocks that muttered close upoii our 

ears, 
Black drizzling crags that spake by tlie 

wayside 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
And giddy prospect of tlie raving stream. 
The unfettered clouds and region of the 

heavens, 
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the 

light- 
Were all like workings of one mind, the 

features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one 

tree. 
Characters of the great Apocahpse, 
The types and symbols of Eternit}^ 
Of first, and last, and midst, and with- 
out end. 1700. 1«45. 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL 
OBJECTS 

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING 
THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND 
EARLY YOUTH 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of 

tliought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain. 
By day or star-light, thus from my first 

dawn 



Of childhood didst thou intertwine for 

nie 
The passions that build up our human 

soul ; 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of 

Man, 
But with high objects, with enduring 

things. 
With life and nature ; purifjing thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognize 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowshiij vouchsafed to 

me 
With stinted kindness. In November 

days. 
When vapors rolling down the valleys 

made 
A lonely scene more lonesome ; among 

v.oods 
At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer 

nights. 
When by the margin of the trembling 

lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I 

went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
Mine was it in the fields botli day and 

night. 
And by the waters, all the summer long. 
And in the frosty season, wlien the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
The cottage-windows through the twi- 
light blazed. 
I heeded not the summons : happj'' time 
It was indeed for all of us : for me 
It was a time of I'apture ! Clear and loud 
Tlie village-clock tolled six — I wheeled 

about. 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
Tliat cares not for his home. — All shod 

with steel 
We hissed along the polished ice, in 

games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resound- 
ing horn. 
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold 

"we flew. 
And not a voice was idle : with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud : 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed wliile the 

stars, 



WORDSWORTH 



13 



Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in 

tlie west 
Tlie orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from tlie uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced side way, leaving the tumult- 
uous throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
Image, that, flying still before me, 

gleamed 
Upon tlie glassy plain : and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the 

wind. 
And all the sliadowy banks on either 

side 
Came sweeping through tlie darkness, 

spinning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my lieels. 
Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth 

had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn 

tx'ain, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 

watclied 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
1799. 1809. 



THERE WAS A BOY 

Written in Germany, This is an extract from 
the poem on my own poetical education. ( Words- 
worth. The poem referred to is Tlie Prelude.) 

There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, j^e 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander ! — many a time. 
At evening, wlien the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the liills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering 

lake ; 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 

mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
Blew mimic hootiiigs to the silent owls. 
That they might answer him. — And they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call, — with quivering 

peals, 
And long halloos, and screams, and 

e(^lioes loud 
Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse 

wild 



Of jocund din ! And, when there came 

a pause 
Of silence such as baffled his best skill. 
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while 

he hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible 

scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven 

received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, 

and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 

old. 
Pie-eminent in beauty is the vale 
Where he was born and bred : the church- 
yard hangs 
Upon a slope above the village-school : 
And through tiiat church-yard when my 

way has led 
On summer-evenings, I believe, that 

there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute — looking at the grave in which he 

lies ! 1799. 1800. 



NUTTING 

Written in Germany ; intended as part of a 
poem on my own life, but struck out as not 
being wanted there (Wordawortli). 

It seems a day 

(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days that cannot 

die ; 
When, in the eagerness of b(>3ash hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying 

forth 
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders 

slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned 

my steps 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 

quaint. 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off 

weeds 
Which for that service had been hus- 
banded, 
Bjr exliortation of my frugal Dame — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles — 

and, in truth. 
More ragged than need was ! O'er 

pathless rocks. 



14 



BRITISH POETS 



Througli beds of matted fern, and tan- 
gled thickets, 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bougli 
Drooped with its withered leaves, un- 
gracious sign 
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters 

hung, 
A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 
Breathing with such suppression of the 

heart 
As joy delights in ; and, with wise re- 
straint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I 

sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers 

I played ; 
A temper known to those, who, after 

long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
Witli sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
Perliaps it was a bower beneath whose 

leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 
And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
For ever ; and I saw the sparkling foam. 
And — with my clieek on one of those 

green stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shad}' 

trees, 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of 

sheep — 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring 

sound, 
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves 

to pay 
Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure. 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent 

things. 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and 

stones 
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
And dragged to earth both branch and 

bough, with crash 
And merciless ravage : and the shady 

nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy 

bovver. 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being : and. unless I now 
Confovmd mj' present feelings with the 

past ; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of 

kings. 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 



The silent trees, and saw the intruding 

sky.— 
Tlien, dearest Maiden, move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
17i>iJ. 1800. 



STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE 
I KNOWN 

The next three poems were written in 
Germany. {Wordsioorth.) 

Strange fits of passion have I known : 

And I will dare to tell. 

But in the Lover's ear alone, 

AVhat once to me befell. 

Wlien she I loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening-moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my e)^e, 

All over the wide lea ; 

Witli quickening pace mj' horse drew 

nigh 
Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached tlie orchard-plot : 
And, as we climbed the liill. 
Tlie sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet (beams I slept. 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On tlie descending moon. 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
He raised, and never stopped : 
When down behind tlie cottage roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 

What fond and wayward thouglits will 

slide 
Into a Lover's head ! 
'• O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
" If Lucy should be dead I " 

1799. 1800. 



SHE. DWELT AMONG THE UNTROD- 
DEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside tlie springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love : 



WORDSWORTH 



15 



A violet by a mossy stpne 
Half hidden from the eye ! 
I — Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

Wlien Lucy ceased to be ; 
But slie is in her grave, and, oli, 

The difference to me ! 1799. 1800. 

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN 
MEN 

I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea : 
Nor. England ! did I know till then ' 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among the mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, tliy niglits con- 
cealed 
The bowers where Lucy played ; 
And tliine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
-v- 1799. 1807. 

THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN 
AND SHOWER 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never .sown ; 
This Cliild I to myself will take ; 
She sliall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

*' My.self will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse : and with me 
The Girl, in rock and plain, 

!In earth and heaven, in glade and 
bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild witli glee across tlie lawn, 
Or up tlie mountain springs ; 
And liers sliall be the breatliing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 



" The floating clouds their state shall 

lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's 

form 
By silent sympatliy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Wliere rivulets dance their wayward 

round. 
And beavity boi*n of murmuring sound 
Sliall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear lier form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
Wliile she and I together live 
Here in this happ_v dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was 

done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 
And never more will be. 1799. 1800. 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion lias she now, no force ; 

She neither liears nor sees ; 
Roiled round in earth's diurnal course. 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
1799. 1800. 



A POET'S EPITAPH 

Art thou a Statist in the van 
Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
— First learn to love one living man ; 
Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
Go, carry to some fitter place 
The keenness of that jiractiseil eye, 
The hardness of that .sallow face. 



BRITISH POETS 



Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 
A rosy Man, right pUinip to see? 
Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
Tliis grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
Welcome I — but lay tlij' sword aside, 
And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou ? one all eyes, 
Philosopher ! a fingei'ing slave, 
One that would peep and botanize 
Upon his mother's grave ? 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
That he below may rest in peace, 
Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears ; 

Led, Heaven knows how ! to tliis poor 

sod : 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
Himself his world, and his own God ; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can 

cling 
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ! 
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the 

latch ; 
Sleep in thj'^ intellectual crust ; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
Near this unpi-ofitable dust. 

But who is he, with modest looks. 
And clad in homely russet brown ? 
He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own. 

He is retired as noontide dew. 
Or fountain in a noon-da}' grove ; 
And you must love him. ere to 3H)u 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of sky and earth. 
Of hill and valle3% he has viewed ; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 

In common things that round us lie 
Some random truths he can impart, — 
The harvest of a (juiet eye 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 



But he is weak ; both Man and Bo}', 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

— Come hither in thy hour of strength 
Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
Or build thy house upon this grave. 

17D9. 1800. 



MATTHEW 

In the School of is a tablet, on which are' 

inscribed in gilt letters, the Names of tlie sev- 
eral persons who have been Schoolmasters there 
since the foundation of the School, with the 
time at which they entered upon and quitted 
their office. Opposite to one of those names the 
Author wrote the following lines. 

Such a Tablet as is here spoken of continued 
to be preserved in Hawkshead School, tliough 
the inscriptions were not brought down to our 
time. This and other poems connected with 
Matthew would not gain by a literal detail of 
facts. Like the Wanderer in " The Excursion," 
tliis Schoolmaster was made up of .several both 
of his class and men of other occupations. I do 
not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in 
such verses, considered strictly as matters of 
fact. It is enough if, being true and consistent 
in spirit, they move antl teach in a manner not 
unworthy of a Poet's calling. ( Wurdsivorih.) 

If Nature, for a favorite child. 
In thee hath tempered so her clay. 
Tliat every hour thy heart runs wild, 
Yet never once doth go astray. 

Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
Tliis tablet, tiiat thus Inimbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 

— When through this little wreck of 

fame. 
Cipher and syllable ! thine ej'e 
Has travelled down to Matthew's name. 
Patise with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 
Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
For Matthew a request I make 
Which for himself he liath not made. 

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
Is silent as a standing pool ; 
Far from the chimney's merry roar. 
And miu'mur of the village school. 

The sighs which Matthew heaved wei'e 

sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 



WORDSWORTH 



17 



The tears which came to Matthew's 

eyes 
Were tears of hght, the dew of gladness. 

Yet. sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round, 
It seemed as if he drank it up — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

— Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all tliat must remain of thee ? 

1799. 1800. 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

We walked along, wliile bright and red 

Uprose the morning sun ; 

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and 

said , 
" The will of God be doiie ! " 

A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray ; 
As blitlie a man as you could see 
On a spring lioliday. 

And on that morning, through the grass. 
And \'>y the steaming rills. 
We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day among the lulls. 

" Our work," said I, " was well begun, 
Tlien, from thy breast wliat thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
So sad a sigh has brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop ; 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, - 
To me he made reply : 

" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind | 

A day like this which I have left 
Full tliirty years behind. 

" And just above yon slope of corn 
Sucli colors, and no other. 
Were in tlie sky, that April morn, 
Of this tlie very brother. 

" NVith rod and line I sued the sport 

Which that sweet season gave. 

And, to the church-yard come, stopped 

short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 



" Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 

The pride of all the vale ; 

And then she sang ; — she would have 

been 
A very nightingale. 

' ' Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more. 
For so it seemed, than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

" And, turning from her grave, I met. 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of moi'ning dew, 

' ' A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight ! 

•' No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
She seemed as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea; 

" There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine ; 
I looked at lier, and looked again : 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
Methinks, I see liim stand. 
As at that moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 1799. 1800. 



THE FOUNTAIN 

A CONVERSATION 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true. 
A pair of friends, tliough I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two, 

We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us 

match 
This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song, or catch 
That suits a summer's noon ; 

" Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade. 



BRITISH POETS 



Tliat lialf-iuad thing of witty rliyiues 
Whicli you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew laj^ and eyed 
The spring beneatli the tree ; 
And thus tlie dear old Man replied, 
The gray haired man of glee : 

" No check, no stay, this Streamlet 

fears ; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on tliis delightful day, 
I cannot elioose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim witli childish tears, 
My heart is idly stirred, 
For the same sound is in my ears 
Whicli in those days I lieard, 

"Tiius fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 
Tlian what it leaves behind. 

"The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
Tlie lark above the hill, 
Let loose their carols when they please 
Are quiet when they will. 

" With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 

*' But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth. 
The household hearts that were his own ; 
It is the man of mirth. 

" My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
My life has been approved. 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
The man who thus complains ; 
I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains ; 



" And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
And through the wood we went ; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock. 
And the bewildered chimes. 

1799. 1800. 

\ LUCY GRAY 

OR, SOLITUDE 

Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded 
on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a 
little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, 
was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps 
were traced by her parents to the middle of the 
lock of a canal, and no other vestig:e of her, 
backward or forward, could be traced. The 
body however was found in the canal. The way 
in which the incident was treated and the spirit- 
ualizing of the character might furnish hints for 
contrasting the imaginative influences which I 
have endeavored to throw over common life 
with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating 
subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken 
to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct 
tlie attention of thoughtful readers, into whose 
hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that 
may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, 
and tend to produce in them a catholic judg- 
ment. (Wordsivorth.) 

See also Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, Sept. 
11,1816. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a luiman door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern. Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two. 
And yonder is the moon ! " 



WORDSWORTH 



19 



At this the Father raised liis liook. 
And snapped a fagot band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 
Witli many a wanton strok(» 
Her feet disperse tlie |)0\vdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
Slie wandered iij) and dowTi ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never readied the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor siglit 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence tliey saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, 

cried, 
" In lieaven we all shall meet ; " 
— Wlien in the snow the mother spied 
Tlie print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's 

edge 
Tliey tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn 

hedge. 
And by the long stone-wall ; 

And then an open field they crossed: 
The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked tlieni on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

Tliey followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rougli and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

1799. 1800. 



\ MICHAEL 

A PASTORAI. POEM 

Written at Town-end, Grasnier«, about the 
same time as " Tlie Brotliers." The Sheepfold, 
on wliioli so much of tlie poem turns, remains, or 
rather the ruins of it. The cliaracter and cir- 
cumstances of Lulve were taken from a family 
to whom had belongjed, many years before, the 
house we lived in at Town-end, along with some 
fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of 
Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not 
in fact given to this house, but to another on 
the same side of the valley, more to the north. 
( Wordsworth.) 

If from the public way you turn your 
steps 

Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 
Ghyll, 

You will suppose that with an upright 
path 

Your feet must struggle ; in such bold 
ascent 

The pastoral mountains front you, face 
to face. 

But, coui-age ! for around that boister- 
ous brook 

The mountains have all opened out them- 
selves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen ; but they 

Wlio journey thither find themselves 
alone 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 
and kites 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude ; 

Nor should I have made mention of this 
Dell 

But for one object which you might pass 

Might see and notice not. Beside the 

brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn 

stones ! 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story — unenriched with strange 

events, 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales tliat spake to me 
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, 

men 
Whom I already loved ; not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields 

and hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a 

Boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the 

power 



20 



BRITISH POETS 



Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led me on to feel 
For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human 

life. 
Therefore, altliough it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate tlie same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the 

sake 

Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 

Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong 

of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth 

to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was 

keen. 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
And in his shepherd's calling he was 

prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds, 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not. He heard tlie 

South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Hi^diland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his 

flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would 

•say, 
" The winds are now devising work for 

me! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm that 

drives 
The traveller to slielter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : lie liail l)een alone 
Amid the heart of many tliousand mists. 
That came to him, and left Imn, on the 

heights. 
So lived he till his eightieth year was 

past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should 

suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams 

and rocks, 
AVere things indifferent to the Shep- 
herd's thoughts. 
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 

breathed 
The common air ; hills, which with vig- 
orous step 



He had so often cliiubed ; wliich Jiad 

impressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or 

fear ; 
Which, like a book, preserved the mem- 
ory 
Of the dumb animals, whom he had 

saved. 
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such 

acts 
The certaint}^ of honorable gain ; 
Those fields, tho.se hills — what could they 

less ? had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to 

him 
A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
His days had not been passed in sin- 
gleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, 

old— 
Though younger than himself full twenty 

years. 
Slie was a woman of a stirring life, 
AYho.se heart was in her house: two 

wheels she had 
Of antique form : tliis large, for spinning 

wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel 

had rest 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their 

house. 
An only Child, who had been born to 

tliem 
Wlien Michael, telling o'er his years, 

began 
To deem that he was old. — in shep- 
herd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only 

Son, 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many 

a storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may trulj' 

say, 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was 

gone. 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come liome, 

even then, 
Their labor did not cease ; unless when 

all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 

there. 
Each with a mess of potfsige and 

skimmed milk. 



WORDSWORTH 



21 



Sat round the basket piled with oaten 
cakes, 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 
when the meal 

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 
named) 

And his old Father both betook them- 
selves 

To such convenient work as might em- 
ploy 

Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to 
card 

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or 
repair 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or 
scythe, 

Or otlier implement of house or field. 
Down from the ceiling, by the chim- 
ney's edge, 

That in our ancient uncouth country 
style 

With huge and black projection over- 
browed 

Large space beneatli, a? duly as tlie light 

Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 
lamp ; 

An aged utensil, wliich had performed 

Service beyond all others of its kind. 

Early at evening did it burn — and late. 

Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 

Which, going by from year to year, had 
found, 

And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 
hopes. 

Living a life of eager industry. 

And now, when Luke had readied his 
eighteentli year. 

There by the light of this old lamp thej" 
sate, 

Father and Son, while far into the night 

The Housewife jjlied her own peculiar 
work, 

Making the cottage througli the silent 
hours 

Murmur as with the sound of summer 
flies. 

This light was famous in its neighbor- 
hood, 

And was a public symbol of the life 

Tliat thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 
chanced. 

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 

Stood single, with large prospect, north 
and soutli. 

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail- 
Raise, 

And westward to the village near the 
lake ; 



And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt witliin the limits of the vale. 
Both old and young, was named The 

Evening Star. 
Thus living on through such a length 

of years. 
The Sliepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Mi- 

chael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more 

dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the 

same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in tlie 

blood of all — 
Tlian that a child, more than all other 

gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man. 
Brings hope witli it, and forward-look- 
ing thouglits. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was tlie love he bare to him. 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For 

oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in 

arms. 
Had done Inm female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind en- 
forced 
To acts of tenderness ; and he had 

rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle 

hand. 
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael 

love, 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
To have the Young-one in his sight, 

when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shep- 
herd's stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him 

stretclied 
Under the large old oak, that near his 

door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth 

of shade, 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the 

sun. 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tkee,i a name which yet 

it bears. 



' Clipping is the word used in the North of 
Euglaud for shearing. (VVoi-dsworth.) 



BRITISH POETS 



There, while they two were sitting in 

the sliade, 
With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe. 
Would Michael exercise his heart witli 

looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon tlie Child, if he disturbed the 

sheep 
By catching at their legs, or Avith his 

shouts 
Scared them, while tliey lay still be- 
neath tlie shears. 
And when by Heaven's good grace the 

boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years 

old ; 
Tlien Michael from a winter coppice cut 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooi)ed 
With iron, making it throughovit in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff , 
And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith 

equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was 

placed 
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the 

flock; 
And. to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin, as you will di- 
vine. 
Something between a hindrance and a 

help ; 
And for this cause not alwaj^s, I believe. 
Receiving from his Fatlier hire of praise ; 
Though nought was left undone which 

staff, or voice. 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 

perform. 
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 

could stand 
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the 

heights. 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary 

ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved 

before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy 

there came 
Feelings and emanations — things which 

were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born 

again ? 
Thus in liis Father's sight the Boy grew 

up: 



And now, wlien he had reached his eigh- 
teenth year. 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
While in this sort the simple house- 
hold lived 

From day to day, to Michael's ear there 
came 

Distressful tidings. Long before the 
time 

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 
bound 

In surety for his brotlier's son, a man 

Of an industrious life, and anii^le means ; 

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 

Had prest upon him ; and old Michael 
now 

Was summoned to discharge the forfeit- 
uie, 

A grievous penalty, but little less 

Than Iialf his substance. This unlooked- 
for claim, 

At the first hearing, for a moment took 

More hope out of his life tlian he sup- 
posed 

That any old man ever covild have 
lost. 

As soon as he liad armed himself with 
strength 

To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 

The Sheplierd's sole resource to sell at 
once 

A portion of his ])atrimonial fields. 

Such was his first resolve ; he thought 
again. 

And liis heart failed him. " Isabel," said 
he. 

Two evenings after he had heard the 
news, 

" I have been toiling more than seventy 
years. 

And in the open sunshine of God's love 

Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of 
ours 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I 
tliink 

That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 

Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 

Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 

And I liave lived to be a fool at last 

To my own family. An evil man 

Tliat was, and made an evil choice, if he 

Were false to us ; and if he were not 
f;ilse. 

There are ten thousand to whom loss like 
this 

Had been no sorrow. I forgive liim ; — 
but 

"Twere better to be dumb than to talk 
thus. 



WORDSWORTH 



23 



" When I began, my purpose was to 

speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, aTid it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou 

know'st. 
Another kinsman — lie will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him 

shall go. 
And with his kinsman's helj) and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done 'i Where every one is 

poor. 
What can be gained ? " 

At this the old Man paused. 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to 

herself. 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shil- 
lings, pence 
And halfpennies, wherewith the neigh- 
bors bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's 

wares ; 
And. with this basket on his arm, tlie lad 
Went up to London, found a master 

til ere, 
Who. out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merciiandise 
Beyond the seas ; where he grew won- 
drous rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor 
And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, 

floored 
With marble which he sent from foreign 

lands. 
Thes'e thoughts, and many others of like 

sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of 

Isabel, 
And her face brightened. Tiie old Man 

was glad. 
And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! 

this scheme 
These two days, has been meat and 

drink to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left vis yet. 
— We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were j^ounger : — but tliis hope is a good 

hope. 
— IMake ready Luke's best garments, of 

the best 



Buy for him more, and let us send him 

forth 
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
— If he could go, the boy should go to- 
night." 
Here Miciiael ceased, and to the fields 

went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for 

five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day 

long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- 
pare 
Things needful for the journey of her 

son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last 

two nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his 

sleep : 
And when they rose at morning she 

could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day 

at noon 
She said to Lvike, while tiiey two by 

themselves 
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must 

not go : 
We have no other child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund 

voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears. 
Recovered heart. That evening her 

best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together .sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas 

fire. 
With daylight Isabel resumed her 

work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house 

appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at 

length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came. 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His vitmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To wliich, requests were added, that 

fortliwith 
He miglit be sent to liim. Ten times or 

more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors 

round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English 

land 



24 



BRITISH POETS 



A prouder heart than Luke's. When 

Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man 

said, 
'• He shall depart to-morrow.'' To this 

word 
The Housewife answered, talking much 

of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should 

go, 

Would surely be forgotten. But at 
length 

She gave consent, and Michael was at 
ease. 
Near the tumultuous brook of Green- 
head Ghyll, 

In that deep valley, Michael had de- 
signed 

To build a Sheepfold ; and, before he 
heard 

The tidings of his melancholy loss, 

For this same purpose he had gathered 
up 

A heap of stones, which by the stream- 
let's edge 

Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 

With Luke that evening thitherward he 
walked : 

And soon as they had readied the place 
he stopped. 

And thus the old Man spake to him : — 
"My Son, 

To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with 
full heart 

I look upon thee, for thou art the same 

That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. 

And all tliy life liast been my dail}' joy. 

I will relate to thee some little part 

Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 

When thou art from me, even if I should 
touch 

On things thou canst not know of. 

After thou 

First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 

To new-born infants — thou didst sleep 
away 

Two days, and blessings from thy 
Father's tongue 

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 
on. 

And still I loved thee with increasing 
love. 

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 

Than when I heard thee by our own fire- 
side 

First uttering, without words, a natural 
tune ; 

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy 

joy 



Sing at tliy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed montli. 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains ; else I think that 

thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke : among 

these liills. 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 
Lack any pleasui'e which a boj' can 

know." 
Luke had a manly heart ; but at these 

words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 

his hand. 
And said, " Naj', do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need 

not speak. 
— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
A kind and a good Father : and herein 
I l)ut repa}^ a gift whicli I myself 
Received at others' hands ; for, though 

now old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Remember tlieni who loved me in my 

j'outh. 
Both of tliem sleep together : here they 

lived. 
As all their Forefathers had done ; and 

when 
At length their time was come, they 

were not loth 
To give tlieir bodies to the family mould. 
I wished that thou should'st live the life 

they lived : 
But, 'tis a long time to look back, my 

Son, 
And see so little gain from threescore 

years. 
These fields were burthened when they 

(uime to me : 
Till I was forty years of age, not more 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in 

my work. 
And till these three weeks past the land 

was free. 
— It looks as if it never could endure 
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, 

Luke. 
If I judge ill for tliee. but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused : 
Then, pointing to the stones near whicli 

they stood, 



WORDSWORTH 



25 



Thus, after a sliort silence, he resumed : 
" This was a work for us ; and now, my 

Son, 
It is a work for nie. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine 

own liands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we botli 

may live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 

part ; 
I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks tliat were resigned to 

thee : 
Up to the heights, and in among the 

storms. 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone. 
Before I knew thy face. — ^Heaven bless 

thee. Boy ! 
Tliy heart these two weeks has been 

beating fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — }'es — 

yes— 
I knew that thou could'st never have a 

wish 
To leave me, Luke : thou hast been 

bound to me 
Only b}^ links of love : when thou art 

gone. 
What svill be left to us !— But, I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 
As I re([uested ; and hereafter, Lvike, 
When thou art gone away, should evil 

men 
Be thy companions, think of me. my Son, 
And of this moment : hither turn thy" 

thoughts. 
And God will strengthen tliee : amid all 

fear 
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that 

thou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 

lived. 
Who, being innocent, did for that cau.se 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare 

thee well — 
When thou return'st, thou in this place 

wilt see 
A work which is not here : a covenant 
'Twill be between us ; but. whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love tliee to the last. 
And bear thy memory witii me to the 

grave."' 
The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke 

stooped down. 
And, as his Fathei- had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Siieepfold. At the 

sight 



The old Man's grief broke from him ; to 

his heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 

wept ; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Huslied was that House in peace, or 

seeming peace, 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn 

the Bo}" 
Began his journey, and when he had 

reached 
The public wny, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed tlieir 

doors. 
Game forth with wishes and with fare- 
well praters, 
That followed him till he was out of 

sight. 
A good report did from their Kinsman 

come. 
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous 

news. 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, 

were throughout 
'• The prettiest letters that were ever 

seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

hearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once 

again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; 

and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure 

hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime 

Luke began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the di.ssolute citj^ gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him. so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-]ilace beyond the seas. 
There is a comfort in the sti'ength of 

love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which 

else 
Would overset the brain, or break tlie 

heart : 
I have conversed with more than one 

who well 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy 

news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth 

to ;ige 
Of an unusual strength. Among the 

rocks 



26 



BRITISH POETS 



He went, and still looked up to sun and 

cloud, 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labor for his 

sheep, 
And for tlie land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did lie repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten vet 
The pity which was then in ever}' heart 
For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
TJiat man}' and many a day he thither 

went. 
And never lifted up a single stone. 
There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes 

was be seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him. lying at iiis feet. 
The length of full seven years, from 

time to time. 
He at the building of this Sheepfold 

wrought, 
And left the work unfinished when he 

died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at her deatii the 

estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's 

liand. 
The Cottage which was named the Even- 
ing Star 
Is gone— the ploughshare has been 

through tlie ground 
On which it stood ; great changes have 

been wrought 
In all the neighborhood : — yet tiie oak is 

left 
That gi'ew beside their door ; and the 

remains 
Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green- 
head Ghyll. ISOn. 18U0. 

THE SPARROWS' NEST 

"Written in the Oreliard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
At tlie end of the garden of my father's house 
at Cockernioutli was a high terrace tliat com- 
manded a fine view of the river Derwent and 
Cocl^ermouth Castle. This was our favorite 
play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was 
covered with closely-elipt privet and roses, 
which gave an almost impervious shelter to 
birds that built their nests there. The latter of 
these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. 
( Wordsworth.) 

Behold, witliin the leafy shade, 
Tliose bright blue eggs together laid ! 
On me the cliance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
The home and sheltered bed, 



The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
M}' sister Emmeline ^ and I 

Together visited. 
She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a boy : 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 

And love, and thought, and \o\ . 

1501. 1807. 

; MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
^ BEHOLD 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a ma)i ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

1502. 1807. 

WRITTEN IN MARCH 

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE 
FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER 

Extempore. This little poem was a favorite 
with Joanna Baillie. ( Wordsworth ) 

Compare the description of the same scene by 
Wordsworth's sister : " There was the gentle 
flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, 
green fields without a living creature to be seen 
on them ; behind us, a flat pasture with forty ■ 
two cattle feeding ; to our left, the road leading 
to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone 
on the bare roofs. The people were at work 
ploughing, harrowing, and sowing : . . . a dog 
barking now and then, cocks crowing, birds 
twittering, the snow in patches at the top of the 
highest hills, yellow palms, purple and green 
twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering 
spikes, stems quite bare. The hawthorn a 
bright green, with black stems under the oak. 
The moss of the oak glossy. AVe went on . . . 
William finished his poem before we got to the 
foot of Kirkstone." (Dorothy Wordsworth^s Jotir- 
nal, April 16, 1803.) 

The Cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing. 
The small birds twitter. 
The lake doth glitter, 

' Dorothy AVordsworth, called Emmeline alsa 
in the poem To a Butterfly. See the beautiful 
lines To my Sister, p. 8, the last lines of the 
Sonnet p. 31^ and notes on the Sonnets of 1803. 



WORDSWORTH 



27 



The green field sleeps in tiie sun ; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest ; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill : 
Tlie ploughboy is whooping— anon — 
anon : 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in tlie fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing : 
The rain is over and gone ! 

1S03. 1807. 

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is re- 
markaijle that this flower, coming out so early 
in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti- 
ful, and in such profusion, should not have been 
noticed earlier in English verse. What adds 
much to the interest that attends it is its habit 
of shutting itself up and opening out according 
to the degree of light and temperature of the 
air. {Wordsworth.) 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets, - 
Primroses will have tlieir glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will iiave a place in storj^ : 
There's a flower thnt sliall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens thej' go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
I'm as great as they. I trow. 
Since tlie day I found thee out. 
Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low, 
Tliii-t}' years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face I did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush. 

In the time before the tiirush 



Has a thought about her nest. 
Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless Prodigal ; 
Telling tales about the sun, 
When we've little warmth, or none. 

PoetSi vain men in their mood ! 
Travel with the multitude : 
Never heed them ; I aver 
That tiie}' all are wanton wooer.s ; 
But the thrifty cottager. 
Who stirs little out of doors, 
Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 

Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood. 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood. 
In the lane ; there's not a place. 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 'tis good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow flowers. 
Children of the flarnig hours ! 
Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no ; 
Others, too, of loftj' mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do. 
Taken praise that should be thine. 
Little, humble Celandine I 

Prophet of delight and mirth. 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band. 
Of a joyous train ensuing. 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will sing, as doth behove. 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 

1S03. 1807. 

TO THE SAME FLOW^ER 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet : 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art. 

Thou must needs, I think, have had. 

Celandine ! and long ago. 

Praise of which I nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 
Whosoe'ei" the man might be. 
Who the first with pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 



28 



BRITISH POETS 



Set the sign-boai"d in a blaze. 
When tlie rising sun he painted, 
Took tlie fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of winter's vanishing, 
And the cliildren build tlieir bcjwers, 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
All about with full-blown flowers. 
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
With the proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have I sighed to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure. 
Sighed to think I read a book 
Only reail, perliaps, by me ; 
Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
And thy arch and wily ways, 
And thy store of other praise. 

Blithe of heart, from week to week 
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
While the patient primrose sits 
Like a beggar in the cold, 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits. 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
When ye all are out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell. 
By what charm of sight or smell. 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Laboring for her waxen cells. 
Fondly settle upon Thee 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side. 
By the season multiplied ? 

Thou ai'e not beyond the moon. 
But a thing " l)eneath our shoon : " 
Let the bold Discoverer tlirid 
In his bark the polar sea ; 
Rear who will a pyramid ; 
Praise it is enough for me. 
If there be Isut tiu-ee or four 
Who will love my little Flower. 

1S0:2. 1807. 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 

This poem was originally known as The Leech 
(?rti/ie)-pr, and is still often called by that title. 
Compare the account of its origin, in Dorothy 
Wordsworth's Jounuil : 

■' When William and I returned, we met an old 
man almost double. He had on a coat, thrown 
over his shoulders, above his waistcoat and coat. 



Under this he carried a bundle, and had an apron 
on and a night-cap. His face was interesting. 
He had dark eyes and a long nose. John, who 
afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him for 
a Jew. H« was of Scotch parents, but had been 
born in the army. He had iiad a wife, and ' she 
was a good woman, and it pleased God to bless us 
with ten children.' All these were dead but one, 
of whom he had not heard for many years, a 
sailor. His trade was to gather leeches, but now 
leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for 
it. He lived by begging, and was making his way 
to Carlisle, where he should buy a few godly 
books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, 
partly owing to this dry season, but many years 
they have been scarce. He supposed it owing to 
their being much sought after, that they did not 
breed fast, and were of slow growth. Leeches 
were formerly 2s. 6d. per 100; they are now 30s. 
He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, 
his body driven over, his skull fractured. He 
felt no pain till he recovered from his first insen- 
sibility. ... It was then late in the evening, 
when the light was just going away." (Dorothy 
Wordsworth's Journal, Octobers, 1800.) 

There was a roaring in the wind all 

night : 
The rain came heavilj- and fell in floods ; 
But now the sun is rising calm and 

bright : 
The birds are singing in the distant 

woods ; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 

broods ; 
The Jay malces answer as the Magpie 

chatters ; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant 

noise of waters. 



All things that love the sun are out of 

doors ; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on 

the moors 
The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
And witli her feet she from the plashy 

earth 
Rai.ses a mist, that, glittering in the sun. 
Runs with lier all the way, wherever she 

doth run. 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 

I saw the hare that raced about with 
joy : 

I heard the woods and distant w aters 
roar ; 

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 

The V'lt'itsant season did my heart em- 
ploy : 

My old remembrances went from me 
wholly ; 

And all the ways of men, so vain and 
melancholy. 



WORDSWORTH 



^9 



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from tlie 

iniglit 
Of joy in minds that can no fui'ther go. 
As liigh as we liave mounted in deligiit 
In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
To me that morning did it liappen so ; 
And fears and fancies tiiick upon me 

came ; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I 

knew not, nor could name. 

I lieard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
Even such a liappy Cliild of earth am I ; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all 

c;ire ; 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and 

poverty. 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
tliought. 

As if life's business were a summer 
mood ; 

As if all needful things would come un- 
sought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 

But how can he expect tliat others 
should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his 
call 

Love liim, who for himself will take no 
heed at all ? 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous 
Boy. 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
pride ; 

Of him wlio walked in glory and in joy 

Following his plough, along the moun- 
tain-side : 

By our own spirits are we deified : 

We Poets in our j^outh begin in glad- 
ness ; 

But thereof come in the end desponden- 
cy and madness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
A leading from above, a something 

given. 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely jdace. 
When I witli these untoward thoughts 

liad striven. 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a JIan before me unawares : 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

gray hairs. 



As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
By what means it could thither come, 

and whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with 

sense : 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 

shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, tliere to sun 

itself ; 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 

dead , 
Nor all asleep, in liis extreme old age : 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long 

past, 
A more than human weight upon his 

frame had cast. 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and 

pale face. 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood : 
And, still as I drew near witii gentle 

pace. 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud tlie old Man stc^od, 
That heareth not the loud winds wlien 

they call 
And moveth all together, if it move at 

all. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the 

pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy watei', which he 

conned. 
As if he had been reading in a book : 
A nd now a stranger's privilege I took ; 
And, drawing to his side, to liim did say, 
"This morning gives us promise of a 

glorious day." 

A gentle answer did the old Man make. 
In ctmrteous speech which fortii he 

slowly drew : 
And him with further words I thus be- 
spake, 
" What occupation do you there pursue ? 
Tills is a lonesome place for one like j'ou." 
Ere he replied, a flasli of mild surprise 
Broke from the sable orbs of his j^et- 
vivid eyes, 

His words came feebly, from a feeble 

cliest. 
But each in solemn order followed each, 



30 



i^RITISH POETS 



Witli something of a lofty utterance 

drest — 
Choice word and measured phrase, 

above the reach 
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use. 
Religious men, who give to God and 

man tlieir dues. 

He told, that to these waters he had 

come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor : 
Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
And lie had many hardsliips to endure : 
From pond to pond he roamed, from 

moor to moor ; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice 

or chance, 
And in this way he gained an honest 

maintenance. 

The old Man still stood talking by mj^ 
side ; 

But now his voice to me was like a 
stream 

Scarce heard ; nor word from word 
could 1 divide ; 

And the whole body of the Man did seem 

Like one whom I had met with in a 
dream ; 

Or like a man from some far region sent, 

To give me human strength, by apt ad- 
monishment. 

My former thoughts returned : the fear 
tliat kills ; 

And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 

Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 

And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 

— Perplexed, and longing to be com- 
forted, 

My question eagerly did I renew, 

" How is it that you live, and what is it 
you do ? " 

He with a smile did then his words 

repeat ; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far 

and wide 
He travelled ; stirring thus about his 

feet 
The waters of the pools where they 

abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on every 

side ; 
But they have dwindled long by slow 

decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them 

where I may." 



While he was talking thus, the lonely 
place, 

Tlie old Man's shape, and speech — all 
troubled me-: 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him 
pace 

About the weary moors continuallj', 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While I tliese thoughts within myself 
pursued, 

He, having made a pause, the same dis- 
course renewed. 

And soon with this he other matter 

blended, 
ClieerfuUy uttered, with demeanor kind, 
But statel)' in the main ; and when he 

ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to 

find 
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
"God," said I, "be my help and stay 

secure ; 
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the 

lonely moor ! " 1S02. 1807. 

I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE ' 

The direct influence of Milton seems evident 
in many of tlie following^ sonnets, and is con- 
firmed by tlie entry in l)orotiiy Wordsworth's 
Journal, May 21, 1803: "William wrote two 
sonnets of Buonaparte, after I had read Milton's 
sonnets to him." See also Wordsworth's note on 
" Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room," 
p. 48. 

I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest 

mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be? 

what food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge 

could he gain ? 
'Tis not in battles that from youth we 

train 
The Governor who must be wise and 

good. 
And temper with the sternness of the 

brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- 
hood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round 

her knees : 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the 

talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the 

hourly walk 
Of the niind's business : these are the 

degrees 



WORDSWORTH 



31 



By which true Sway doth mount ; this 

is tiie stalk 
True Power doth grow ou ; and her rights 

are these. 1SU2. 1807. 

J COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE, September S, 1802 

"We left London on Saturday morning at 
half-past five or six, the .30tli of July. We 
mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It 
was a beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, 
with the river, and a multitude of little boats, 
made a most Ijeautiful sight as we crossed 
Westminster Bridge. The houses were not over- 
hung by their cloud of smoke, and they were 
spread out endlessly ; yet the sun shone so 
brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was 
even something like the purity of one of nature's 
own grand spectacles." (Dorothy Wordsirorth s 
Journal, July, 1802.) 

E.\RTH has not anything to show more 

fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass 

by 

A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth, like a garment, 

wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Sliips, towers, domes, theatres and tem- 
ples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All brigltt and glittering in the smoke- 
less air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, i-ock, or 

hill ; 
Ne'er saw I. never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep : 
And all that mighty heart is Iving still ! 
i5ft>. 1807. 

\ COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, 
NEAR CALAIS, August, 1802 

" We had delightful walks after the heat of the 
day was passed — seeing far off in the west the 
coast of England like a cloud crested with Dover 
Castle, which was but like the summit of the 
cloud— the evening star and the glory of the sky, 
the reflections in the water were more beautiful 
than the sky itself, purple waves brighter than 
precious stones, for ever melting away upon the 

sands Nothing in romance was ever half so 

beautiful. Now came in view, as the evening 
star sunk down, and the colors of the west 
faded away, the two lights of England." (Doro- 
thy Wordsicoi-th^s Journal, August, 1803.) 

Fair Star of evening. Splendor of tlie 

west, 
Star of my Counti'y ! — on the horizon's 

brink 



Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, 

to sink 
On England's bosom ; j'et well pleased 

to rest. 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to tlie Nations. Thou, I 

tliink, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and 

should'st wink, 
Briglit Star ! with laughter on her ban- 
ners, drest 
In tliy fresh beauty. There! that dusky 

spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there slie 

lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one 

lot. 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, manj'^ heartfelt 

sigiis, 
Among men who do not love her, linger 

here. 1S0:.\ 1807. 

IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, 
CALM AND FREE 

This was composed on the beacii near Calais, 
in the autunui of 1803. (\\'i>r(l^:irorfh.) 

The last six lines are addressed to Words- 
worth's sister Dorothy. See note to the preced- 
ing Sonnet. 

It is a beauteous evening, calni and free, 
The holy time is qvuet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad .sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 

Sea : 
Li.sten ! the mightj^ Being is awake, 
And doth witli liis eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Ciiild ! dear Girl ! that walkest 

with ine here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn 

thouglit. 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou lie.st in Abraliam's bosom all the 

year : 
And worsliip'st at tlie Temple's inner 

shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it 

not. ISO:?. 1807. 

*0N THE EXTINCTION OF THE 
VENETIAN REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 

fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the 

worth 



3^ 



BRITISH POETS 



Of Venice did not fall below her birth. 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories 

fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength 

decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final 

day: 
Men are we, and must grieve when even 

the Shade 
Of that which once was great, is passed 

away. 1S02. 1807. 

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 

ToussAiNT, the most unliappy man of 

men ! 
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 

plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 

den ; — 

mi.serable Chieftain ! Avhere and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; 

do thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful 

brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise 

again, 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast 

left behind 
Powers that will work for thee ; air, 

earth, and skies ; 
There's not a breatliing of the common 

wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great 

allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's unconquerable 

mind. 1803. 1807. 

NEAR DOVER, September, 1803 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
And saw, while sea was calm and air 

was clear, 
The coast of France — the coast of France 

how near ! 
Drawn almost into frightful neiglibor- 

hood. 

1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
Was like a lake, or river bright and 

fair, 



A span of waters ; yet what power is 

there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good I 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. AVinds blow, and 

waters roll. 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and 

Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One 

decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by tlie 

soul 
Onlv, the Nations shall be great and free. 
mJ:2. 1807. 

WRITTEN IN LONDON, September. 

1802 

This was written immediately after my return 
from France to London, when I could not but 
be struck, as here described, with the vanity 
and parade of our own country, especially iii 
great towns and cities, as contrasted witli the 
quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the 
revolution had produced in France. This must 
be borne in mind, or else the reader may think 
that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have 
exaggerated the mischief engendered and fos- 
tered among us by undisturbed wealth. It would 
not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feel- 
ing I entered into the struggle carried on by the 
Spaniards for their deliverance from the usiu'ped 
power of the French. Many times have 1 gone 
from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we 
were then residing, to the top of the Raise-gap 
as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the morn- 
ing, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper 
from Keswick. Imperfect traces of the state of 
mind iu which I then was may be found in my 
Tract on the Convention of Cintra, as well as in 
tliese Sonnets. ( Worcls7vorth. ) 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must 

look 
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest. 
To tliink that now our life is onlj' drest 
For show ; mean handy-work of crafts- 
man, cook, 
Or groom ! — We must run glittering like 

a brook 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblesfc : 
The wealthiest man among us is the 

best : 
No grandeur now in natin-e or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry : and these we adore : 
Plain living and higli thinking are no 

more : 
The homelj' beauty of the good old 

cause 
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful inno- 
cence. 
And pure religion breathing household 
laws. ISU^J. 1807. 



WORDSWORTH 



33 



LONDON, 1803 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this 

hour : 
England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and 

pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 

bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English 

dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish 

men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt 

apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was 

like tlie sea: 
Pui'e as the naked heavens, majestic, 

free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common 

waJ^ 
In olieerf ul godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lav. 
18U:2. 1807. 

GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN 
AMONG US 

Great men have been among us; hands 
tliat penned 

And tongues that uttered wisdom^ — bet- 
ter none : 

The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington. 

Young Vane, and others who called 
Milton friend. 

Tliese moralists could act and compre- 
hend : 

They knew how genuine glory was put 
on ; 

Taught us how I'ightfullya nation shone 

In splendor : wliat strengtli was, tliat 
would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 
'tis strange, 

Hath brought forth no such souls as we 
had then. 

Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 

No single volume paramount, no code. 

No master spirit, no determined road ; 

But equally a want of books and men ! 
1S02. 1807. 

IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF 

It is not to be thouglit of that tlie 

Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
3 



Of the world's praise, from dark an- 
tiquity 

Hath flowed, " with ponqjof waters, un- 
withstood," 

Roused tliougli it be full often to a mood 

Which spvirns the check of salutary 
bands, 

That this most famous stream in bogs 
and sands 

Should perish ; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 

Armoiy of the invincible Kniglits of 
old: 

We must be free or die, who speak tlie 
tongue 

That Shakspeai'e spake; tlie faith and 
morals hold 

Which Milton held. — In everything we 
are sprung 

Of Earth's first blood, have titles mani- 
fold. 1S02. 1807. 

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN 
MEMORY 

When I have borne in memory what has 

tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts 

depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, 

and desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears 

unnamed 
I had. my Country ! — am I to be 

blamed ? 
Now, when I think of thee, and what 

thou art. 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
For dearly must we prize thee ; we who 

find 
In tliee a bulwark for the cause of men : 
And I hy my affection was beguiled : 
What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
Among the many movements of his 

mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

1S02. 1807. 

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE 

SIX YEARS OLD 

O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are 
brovight ; 

Who of thy words dost make a mock 
apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self- 
born carol ; 



34 



BRITISH POETS 



Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thj^ boat 
May rather seem 
To brood on air than on an earthly 

stream ; 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one 

imagery ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild. 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 
I thought of times when Pain might 
be tliy guest. 

Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 

And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 

But when she sate within tlie touch of 
thee. 

O too industrious folly ! 

O vain and causeless melancholy ! 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 

Or. lengthening out thy season of delight, 

Preserve for thee, by individual right. 

A young lamb's heart among the full- 
grown flocks. 

What hast thou to do with sorrow, 

Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 

Thou art a dew-drop, whicli the morn 
brings fortli, 

111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 

A gem that glitters while it lives. 

And no forewarning gives ; 

But, at the touch of wrong, without a 
strife 

Slips in a moment out of life. 

1802. 1807. 

TO THE DAISY 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent. 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
]\Iy thirst at every rill can slake. 
And gladly Nature's love partake, 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole Summer-fields are thine by I'ight ; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 
When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 



Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing davmted. 
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zepliyrs choose ; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head im pearling ; 
Thou liv'st witli less ambitious aim. 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed bj' manj- a claim 

The Poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly. 
Or, some bright daj' of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 

Near the green holl}'. 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melanchol\^ 

A hundred tinres, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an liour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love ; some brief deliglit ; 
Some memory that liad taken flight ; 
Some cliime of fancy wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn. 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure : 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
Tlie common life our nature breeds ; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray. 
When tliou art up, alert and gay. 
Then, cheerful Flower ! nij^ spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Tliou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hatli often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 

And all day long I number yet. 
All seasons through, another debt. 
Which I, wlierever thou art met, 

To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
A happy, genial influenr^e. 
Coming one knows not how, nor wlience, 

Nor whither going. 



WORDSWORTH 



35 



Cliild of the Year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
As ready to salute tlie sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Tliy long-lost praise tliou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Tlian in old time : tliou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite. ^ l^u,:!. 1807. 

TO THE SAME FLOWER 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee. 

For tliou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with tliat homel.y face. 
And yet with something of a grace, 

Which Love makes for thee.! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
I sit, and [ilay witli similes. 
Loose types of things through all de- 
grees. 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to tliee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court. 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy. 
That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over. 
The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold. 
That sj^reads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest. 
Self-poised m air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest. 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

' St^e, ill Chaucer and the elfler Poets, the 
honors formerly paid to this flower. 

C iy<ji:dsiUijrtlt..) 



Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart witli gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 1S02. 1807. 

TO THE DAISY 

Bright Flower ! whose home is every- 
where. 
Bold in maternal Nature's care. 
And all the long year through, the heir 

Of joy or sorrow ; 
Jlethinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity. 
Given to no other tiower I see 

The forest tiiorough ! 

Is it that Man is soon deprest? 

A thoughtless Thing ! who, once un- 

blest. 
Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason. 
And Thou would'st teach him how to 

find 
A shelter under every wind. 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season ? 

Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
With friends to greet tiiee, or without. 

Yet pleased and willing ; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. ISi).?. 1807. 

THE GREEN LINNET 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that 

shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 
With brightest sunshine round me 

spread 
Of spring's vmclouded weatlier. 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to 

greet, 
My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of tlie blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion ! 



36 



BRITISH POETS 



Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
Presiding Spirit here to-day. 
Dost lead the revels of the May ; 
And this is thy dominion. 

While birds, and butterflies, and flow- 
ers. 
Make all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down tlie bovvers. 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence like tlie Air. 
Scattering thy gladness without cai'e, 
Too blest witii any one to pair ; 

Thj'self tlip own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze. 
Behold him perched in ecstasies, 

Yet seeming still to hover ; 
There ! wliere the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brotlier of the dancing leaves ; 
Tlien flits, and from tlie cottage-eaves 

Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
As if by tliat exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form lie chose to feign, 

While fluttering in the busiies. 

1S03. 1807. 

YEW-TREES 
Compare the note on A Night-Piece. 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton 

Vale, 
Which to this day stands single, in the 

midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of 

yore ; 
Not loth to furnish weapons for the 

bands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
To Scotland's heaths ; or those that 

crossed the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azin- 

cour. 
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
Of vast circumference and gloom pro- 
found 
This solitai-y Tree ! a living thing 
Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
Of form and aspect too magnificent 
To be destroyed. But worthier still of 

note 



Are those fraternal Four of Borrow dale, 
Joined in one solemn and capacious 

grove ; 
Huge trunks; and each particular trunk 

a growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and 

looks 
That threaten the profane ; — a pillared 

shade. 
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 

hue. 
By sheddings from the jjining umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, 

decked 
With unrejoicing berries — ghostly 

Shapes 
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trem- 
bling Hope. 
vSilence and Foresight ; Death the Skele- 
ton 
And Time the Shadow ; — there to cele- 
brate, 
As in a natural tem])le scattered o'er 
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone. 
United worship : or in mute repose 
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost 
caves. 1S03. 1.S07. 

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 

1803 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 

For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. 
( Wordsworth). 

I SHIVER. Spirit fierce and bold. 
At thought of what I now V>eliold : 
As vapors breathed fiom dvmgeons 
cold. 

Strike pleasure dead. 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near. 
And thou forbidden to appear ? 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — 

away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to 

stay ; 



WORDSWORTH 



37 



With chastened feelings would I pay 

Tile tribute due 
To liim, and auglit that liides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius " glinted " forth. 
Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems. 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

Tlie piercing eye. the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be they 

now ■? — 
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 

The prompt, the brave. 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone. 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alas ! where'er the current tends. 
Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
Huge CrilTel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 
Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined ; 
But heart with heart and mind with 

mind. 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 

Tiirough Natvu'e's skill. 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 
At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sate and talked where go wans 
blow , 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasui-es would have then been 

placed 
Within my reach : of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast ! 

But wh}^ go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful 
blast. 
His grave grass-grown. 



There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling 

died,) 
Lies gathered to his Father's side. 

Soul-moving sigiit ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight : 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath earl}"^ found among the dead, 

Harbored where none can be misled, 

Wronged, or distrest ; 
And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitjnng grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race. 
May He who hallowetli the place 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away ; but ere 
Nigiit fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 
Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn. 
Chanted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 

1S03. 1845. 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 

AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND 

This delightful creature and her demeanor are 
particularly described in my Sister's Journal. 
( Wordsivvrth. ) 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is tJi.y earthly dower ! 
Twice seven consenting years have slied 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
And these gray rocks ; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake ; 
This little bay ; a qviiet road 
That holds in shelter thy Abode — 
In truth together do 5' e seem 
Like sometlujig fashioned in a dream ; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day. so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art 
I bless thee with a luim;i,n heart ; 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
And yet my eyes are filled wnth tears. 



38 



BRITISH POETS 



With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
III which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed. 
Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenlj' shamefacedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy foreiiead clear 
Tlie freedom of a Mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
.Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
And seemliness complete, tliat sways 
Tliy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but sucli as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thouglits that lie beyond tlie reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
T!iat gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For tliee who art so beautiful ? 

happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell : 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A Shepherd, tliou'a Shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 

Of the wild sea ; and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could. 

Though but of common neighborhood. 

What joy to hear tliee, and to see ! 

Thy elder Brother I would be, 

Thy Father — anything to tliee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its 

grace 
Hatii led me to this lonel,y place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 
In spots like tliese it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel tliat she hatii eyes: 
Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 

I feel this place was made for her ; 

To give new pleasure like the ])ast. 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part : 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me siiall behold. 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

Tiie la'ke, tlie bay, the waterfall ; 

And Thee, the spirit of them all ! 

1S03, 1807. 



STEPPING WESTWARD 

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walk- 
ing by the side of Loch Ketteriue, one fine even- 
ing after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in 
the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably 
entertained some weeks before, we met, in one 
of tlie loneliest parts of that solitary region, two 
well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us by 
way of greeting, " What, you are stepping west- 
ward ? " {Wordsworih.) 

" What, you are stepping ivestioard ?"" 
— " Yea." 
— 'Twould be a uiildish destiny. 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange Land, and far from home. 
Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance 
Though home or shelter he had none, 
With such a sky to lead him on? 

The dewy ground was dfirk and cold ; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 

And stepping westward seemed to be 

A kind of heavenly destiny : 

I h'ked tlie greeting : 't was a sound 

Of sometliing without place or bound ; 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 

To travel through that region briglit. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake : 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of courtesy : 

Its power was felt ; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon tlie glowing Sky, 

The echo of the voice en wrought 

A human sweetness with the thought 

Of travelling through the world that lay 

Before me in my endless way. 

ISOS. 1807. 

THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, .single in the field. 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself ; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking tlie silence of the seas 
Amoni'- the farthest Hebrides. 



WORDSWORTH 



39 



Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, vmhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill 
The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 

1803. 1807. 

YARROW UNVISITED 

See the various Poems the scene of which is 
laid upon tlie banks of Die Yarrow ; in part icu- 
lar, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning 
"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, — 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! — " 
{Wordsworth) . 

From Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled : 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Ta\', 
And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford; 
Then said my " ivinsome 3Iarrou\'^ 
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
And .see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling. 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 

Each maiden to her dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

" There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming 

Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
Jliat glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 



— Strange words they seemed of slight 

and scorn 
My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's 

holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow, 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

' ' If Care with freezing years should 

come. 
And wandering seem but folly. — 
Should we be loth to stir from home, 
And yet be melancholy ; 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
That earth has something yet to show, 
Tlie bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 

ISOJ. 1807. 

ODE 1 ^ S, 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM REC- 
OLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

" In my Ode on the Intimations of Immnr- 
fality in Childhood, I do not profess to give a 
literal representation of the state of the affec- 
tions and of tlie moral being in childhood. I re- 
cord my own feelings at that time— my absolute 
spirituality, my ' all-soulness,' if I may so speak. 
At that time I could not believe that I should lie 
down quietly in the grave, and that my body 
would moulder into dust." (Wordsworth in con- 
versation ; Knight's Life of Wordsuwrth, II, 
336.) 

I 

There was a time when meadow, grove, 
and stream. 



f . 1 '^ 



40 



BRITISH POETS 



The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of 3 ore ; — 
Tuin wliereso'er I may, 
By night or day, 
Tiie things whicli I have seen I now can 
see no more. 



The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon'doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are 
bare ; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 

Tlie sunshine is a glorious birth ; 

But j'et I know, where'er I go, 

That there liath past away a glory from 

the earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of 

grief ; 
A timely utterance gave that thought 
relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from 

the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season 

wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the moun- 
tains tlirong. 
The Winds come to me from the fields 
of sleep. 

And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the 
call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your 
jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel 
it all. 



Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
M'arm , 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
arm : — 
I hear. I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked 

upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone : 
The Pans}' at my feet 
Doth tlie same tale repeat : 
AVhither is fled the A'isionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the 
dream ? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a foi-get- ] 
ting : ^ 

The Soul that rises with us, our life's 
Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar : 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God. who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Sliades of the prison-house begin to 
close 
Upon the growing Boy. 
But he beholds the light, and whence it 
flows. 
He sees it in his joj' ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the 
east 
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die 

away. 
And fade into the light of common day. 



Earth fills her lajj with pleasures of her 

own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural 

kind. 
And, even with something of a Mother's 

mind. 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate 

Man, 



WORDSWORTH 



41 



Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he 
came. 



Behold the Child among his new-born 

blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand 

he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him froni his father's 

eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or 

chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of hu- 
man life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned 
art ; 
A wedding or a festival. 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this liath now his heart, 
And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will lie fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside. 
And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his " humor- 
ous stage " 
With all the Persons, down to jialsied 

Age, 
That Life brings with her in lier equip- 
age ; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth 

belie 
Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost 

keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the 

blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 

deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to 

find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the 

grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a 

Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 



Thou little Child, yet glorious in tlie 

might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 

height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou 

provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 

strife ■? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthl j- 

freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a 

weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX 

O joy ! tliat in our embers 
Is sonietliing tliat doth live, 
That natvire yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thouglit of our past years in me 

dotii breed 
Perpetvial benediction : not inileed 
For that which is most wortliy to ))e 

blest — 
Delight and liberty, tlie simple creed 
Of Childhood, whetlier busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering 
in liis breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of tlianks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanisliings ; 
Blank misgivings of a. Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal 

Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing sur- 
prised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections, 
AVhich. be they what tliey maj', 
Are yet the fountain light of all our d;iy. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us. cherish, and have power 
to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the 

being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that 
wake. 
To perisli never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
deavor. 
Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly al)o]ish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 



42 



BRITISH POETS 



Our Souls have sight of that immortal 
sea 
Which brought us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the 

shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling 
evermore. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng. 
Ye that pipe and ye that plaj'. 
Ye tliat through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was 

once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight, 
Though nothing can bring back the 
hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been niust ever be ; 
In the soothing thouglits that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through 
death. 
In years that bring the philosophic 
mind. 



And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, 
and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your 
might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual 
sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their 
channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly 
as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born 
Day 

Is lovely j^et ; 

The Clouds that gather round the set- 
ting sun 

Do take a sober coloring from an eye 

That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- 
tality ; 

Another race hath been, and other 
palms are won. 



Thanks to the human heart by whicli 

we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and 

fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows 

can give 
Thouglits that do often lie too deep for 

tears. 1S03-6. 1807. 

TO THE CUCKOO 

BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While 1 am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear. 
From hill to liill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of Aisionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-hoy days 

1 listened to ; that Crj- 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sk3^ 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee jet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 

And listen, till I do beget )<^ 

That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faer}^ place ; 
That is fit home for Thee ! 

ISOi. 1807. 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
DELIGHT 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of 
this poem was four lines composed as a part of 
the verses on the Highland Girl. Though begin- 
ning in this way, it was written from my heart, 
as is sufficiently obvious. {Wordsworth.) 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 



WORDSWORTH 



43 



A lovely Apparition sent 
To be a moment's ornainent ; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and \vay-la3'. 

I saw lier upon nearer view. 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
Her liousehold motions liglit and free, 
And steps of virgin-liberty : 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
A Creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food ; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, teai's and 
smiles. 

And now I see with e.ye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
*A Being breathing thouglitful breath, 
A Traveller between life and deatli ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foi'esight, strength, and 

skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
To warn, to comfort^ and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

ISOJt. 1807. 

I WANDERED LONELY AS A 
CLOUD 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daf- 
fodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ulls- 
water, and probably may he seen to this day as 
beautiful in the month of March, nodding their 
golden heads beside the dancing and foaming 
waves. ( Wordsworth. ) 

I "WANDERED lonely as a cloud 

Tliat floats on high o'er vales and hills. 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but 

they • 
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
A poet could not but be gay, 



In such a jocund company : 
I gazed — and gazed — but little thouglit 
AVliat wealth the show to me had 
brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 

Tliey flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

And then my heart w.ith pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 

1S(|J^. 1807. 

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 

Written at Town-end, Cfrasmere. This was 
taken'f rom the case of a poor widow who lived 
in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well 
known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and. I 
believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, 
and wlien she saw a stranger passing by, she was 
in the habit of going out into the street to en- 
quire of him after her son. ( Wordsworth.) 

Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me tlian dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
Why am I ignorant of the .same, 
That I may rest, and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child ; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
And been for evermore beguiled : 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 

He was among the prime in worth, 

An object beauteous to behold ; 

Well born, well bred ; I .sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 

If things ensued that wanted grace. 

As hath been said, they were not base ; 

And never blush was on mj' face. 

All ! little doth the young one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 

iHeard by his mother unawares ! 

"^e knows it not, he cannot guess 
Years to a motlier bring distress ; 

^But do not make her love the les 

Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 

From that ill thought ; and. being blind, 

Said, " Pride shall help me in \\\y wrong ; 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 

I've wet my path with tears like dew. 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 



44 



BRITISH POETS 



My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 

Hopeless of honor and of gain, 

Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 

Think not of me with grief and pain : 

I now can see with better eyes ; 

And worldly grandeur I despise, 

And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
They mount— how short a voyage bi'ings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down bj' land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den ; 
Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
Tliat there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night. 
With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
The very shadows of tlie clouds 
Have power to sliake me as they pass : 
I question things and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 

Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh. 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me. my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
I have no other earthly friend ! . 

ISOJt. 1807. 

ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
O Duty ! if that name tliou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victor}^ and law 
When empty terrors overawe : 
From vain temptatiotis dost set free : 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail 
humanity ! 



There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; wlio, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
Oh ! if througli confidence misplaced 
They fail, thj^ saving arms, dread 
Power ! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and briglit, 
And happy will our nature be, 
Wlien love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, wlio, not unwiseh^ bold. 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek tliy firm support, according to 
tlieir need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in w\y heart was lieard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more 
strictly, if I may. 

Tlirough no disturbance of my soul. 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control ; 
But in the quietness of tliought : 
Me this vinchnrtejed freedom tires ; 
I feel the weiglit of chance-desires : 
My hopes no more must cliange their 

name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the 

same. 

Stern La wgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godliead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in th}- footing treads : 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
Thee, are fresh and strong. 

To Immbler functions, awful Power ! 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidaiice froin tliis hour ; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me. made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give : 
And in the light of trutli thy Bondman 
let me live ! 1S05. 1807. 



WORDSWORTH 



45 



TO A SKY-LARK 

Up with me! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up with me, up witli me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses 

dreary 
And to-day my heart is weary ; 
Hatl I now tlie wings of a Faery, 
Up to thee would I fly. 
There is madness about thee, and joy 

divine 
In that song of thine ; 
Lift me, guide me high and high 
To thy banqueting-jjlace in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy 

rest. 
And, though little troubled with sloth. 
Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
To be sucli a traveller as I. 
Happy, happy Liver, 
With a soul as strong as a mountain 

river 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty 

Giver, 
Jo}^ and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
Througli prickly moors or dusty ways 

must wind ; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 
As full of gladness and as free of 

heaven, 
I. witli my fate contented, will plod on. 
And hope for higher raptures, when 

life's day is done. 1805. 1807. 

ELEGIAC STANZAS 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE 
CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR 
GEORGE BEAUMONT 

I WAS tliy neighbor once, thou rugged 

Pile! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 

thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the wliile 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 



So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I looked, tliy Image still was 

tliere ; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! it seemed 

no sleep ; 
No mood, which season takes away, or 

brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty 

Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle 

Things. 

Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's 

hand , 
To express what then I saw ; and add 

the gleam. 
The light that never was, on sea or 

land. 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary 

Pile 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to 

smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- 
house divine 

Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of 
heaven ; — 

Of all tlie sunbeams that did ever shine 

The very sweetest had to thee been 
given. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but tlie moving tide, a breeze. 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such Picture would I at that time have 

made : 
And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that might not be 

betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no 

more ; 
I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can 

restore ; 
A deep distress hath humanized my 

Soul. 



46 



BRITISH POETS 



Not for a moment could I now behold 
A sm^iling sea, and be what I have been : 
The feeling of my loss will ne"er be old ; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind 
serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would 

have been the Friend, 
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but 

commend : 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate Work !— yet wise and 

well, 
Well chosen in tlie spirit that is liere ; 
That Hulk which labors in the deadly 

swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing liere sub- 
lime, 

1 love to see the look with which it 

braves. 
Cased in the unfeeling armor of old 

time, 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and 

trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 

alone, 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the 

Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
Is to be pitied ; for 't is surel}^ blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient 

cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be 

borne! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me 

here. — 
Not without hope we suffer and we 

mourn. 1805. 1807. 

TO A YOUNG LADY 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 

— There is a nest in a green dale,' 

A harbor and a hold ; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt 

see 
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
And treading among flowers of joy 



Which at no season fade, 
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
Shalt show us how divine a thing 
A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
Nor leave tliee, when gray hairs are nigh, 
A melancholy slave ; 
But an old age .serene and bright, 
And lovely as a Lapland night, 
Shall lead thee to thy grave. 

1S05. 1807. 

FRENCH REVOLUTION 

as it APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
COMMENCEMENT 

An extract from the long poem of my own 
poetical education. It was first published by 
Coleridge in his " Friend," which is the reason 
of its having had a place in every edition of my 
poems since. (Wordsworth.) From The Prelude, 
Bk. XI. 

Oh ! pleasant exerci.se of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars whicli 

then stood 
Upon our side, we wlio were strong in 

love ! 
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. 
But to be young was very heaven ! — 

Oil ! times, 
In whicli the meagre, stale, forbidding 

ways 
Of cu.stom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert 

her rights, 
Wlien most intent on making of herself 
A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, 
Wliich then was going forward in her 

name ! 
Not favored spots alone, but the whole 

earth, 
The beauty wore of promise, that which 

sets 
(As at some moment might not be unfelt 
Among tVie bowers of paradise itself) 
The budding ro.se above the rose full 

blown. 
Wliat temper at the prospect did not 

wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt 



away 



They wlio had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
Tlie playfellows of fancy, who had made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 



WORDSWORTH 



47 



Tlieir ministers, — who in lordly wise had 

stirred 
Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
And dealt with whatsoever they found 

there 
As if they liad within some lurking right 
To wield it ; — they, too, who, of gentle 

mood, 
Had watched all gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 
And in the region of their peaceful 

selves ; — 
Now was it that both found, the meek 

and lofty 
Did both find, helpers to their heart's 

desire. 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish ; 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 

where ! 
But in tlie very world, which is the 

world 
Of all of us, — the place where in the end 
We find our happiness, or not at all I 
1S05. 1810. 

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

Suggested in part by an event which all Eng- 
land was lamenting— the death of Lord Nelson — 
and in part by tl>e personal loss, which he still 
felt so keenly, his brother John's removal. On 
the 4th of February, 1806, Southey wrote thus 
to Sir Walter Scott : . . . ' Wordsworth was 
with me last week ; he has been of late more 
employed in correcting his poems than in writ- 
ting others ; but one piece he has written, upon 
the ideal character of a soldier, than which I 
have never seen anything more full of meaning 
and sound thought. The subject was suggested 
by Nelson's most glorious death. . . .' 

(Knight, Life of Wordsworth, II, 46-7.) 

Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms siiould wish to 

be? 
— It is the generous Spirit, who, when 

brought 
Among the task of real life, hath 

wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 

thought : 
Whose high endeavors are an inward 

light 
That makes the path before him always 

bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 



What knowledge can perform, is dili- 
gent to learn ; 

Abides by tliis resolve, and stops not 
there. 

But makes his moral being his prime 
care ; 

Who, doomed to go in company with 
Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable 
train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest 
dower ; 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 
bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good 
receives : 

By objects, which might force the soul 
to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassion- 
ate ; 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even 
more pure. 

As tempted more ; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and dis- 
tress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness, 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who de- 
pends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are 
tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 

He labors good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

— Who, if he rise testation of command. 

Rises by open means ; and there will 
stand 

On honorable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself po.ssess his own desire ; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the 
same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 
wait 

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly 
state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head 
must fall. 

Like showers of manna, if they come at 
all: 

Whose powers shed round him in the 
common strife. 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 



48 



BRITISH POETS 



A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
But wlio, if lie be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven 

lias joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human 

kind, 
Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man in- 
spired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps 

the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he 

foresaw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
— He who, though thus endued as with 

a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle 

scenes ; 
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he 

be. 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath much 

to love ; — 
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or 

not — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that 

one 
Where what he most doth value must 

be won : 
Whom neither shape of danger can dis- 
may. 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
Who, not content that former worth 

stand fast, 
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
Froni well to better, daily self-surpast : 
Who, whether praise of him must walk 

the earth 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his 

fame. 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his 

cause ; 
And, while the moral mist is gathering, 

draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's 

applause : 
This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
That every Man in arms should wish to 

be. ISUG. 1807. 



YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN 
ECHO 

Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound. 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for sound ! 

Unsolicited repl)^ 

To a babbling wanderer sent ; 

Like her ordinary cry. 

Like — but oh, liow different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life ? 
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures I 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
Voices of two different natures ? 

Have not ive too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not whence ; 
Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognized intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 
Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
For of God,— of God thev are. 

"iSOG. 1807. 

NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON- 
VENT'S NARROW ROOM 

In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after- 
noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of 
]\[iIton. I had lonj; been well acquainted with 
them, but I was particularly struck on tl>at occa- 
sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic 
harmony that runs tlu-ough most of them, — in 
character so totally different from the Italian, 
and still more so from Shalcspeare's fine Soiuiels. 
I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and 
produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the 
first I ever wrote except an irregular one at 
school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly 
remember is — " I grieved for Buonapartt^." One 
was never written down : the third, which was, 
I t)elieve, preserved, I cannot particularize. 
{Wordsworth.) 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 

room ; 
And hermits are contented with their 

cells ; 
And students with their pensive citadels ; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his 

loom. 
Sit blithe a)id happj^ ; bees that soar for 

bloom , 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
Will nnirmur by the hour in foxglove 

bells: 



WORDSWORTH 



49 



In tiutli the prison, unto whicli we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for 

me, 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be 

bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of 

ground ; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there 

needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much 

liberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as I have 

found. ISUG. 1S07. 

PERSONAL TALK 



I AM not One who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with pei'sonal 

talk— 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in mj^ sight : 
And, for mj' cliance-acquaintance, ladies 

bright, 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 

stalk. 
These all wear out of me, like Forms, 

with chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one 

feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence 

long. 
Long, barren silence, square with my 

desire ; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. 
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 

II 
" Yet life," you say, "is life; we have 

seen and see, 
And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
Tiie languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth 

and glee 
Are fostered by the comment and the 

gibe." 
Even be it so ; yet still among your 

tribe. 
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank 

not me ! 
Children are blest, and powerful ; their 

world lies 
Moi"e justly balanced ; partly at their 

feet. 
And part far from them : sweetest mel- 
odies 



Are those that aie hy distance made 

more sweet ; 
Whose mind is but the mind of his own 

eyes. 
He is a Slave ; the meanest we can 

meet ! 

Ill 

Wings have we, — and as far as we can 

go, 
We may find pleasure : wilderness and 

wood. 
Blank ocean and mere sk}-, sujjport that 

mood 
Wiiich with the loftj^ sanctifies the low. 
Dreams, books aie each a world ; and 

books, we know. 
Are a substantial world, both pure and 

good : 
Round these, witli tendrils strong as 

flesh and blood. 
Our pastime and our happiness will 

grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plente- 
ous store. 
Matter wherein right A^oluble I am. 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, i)re-eminently 

dear, — 
The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white 

Lamb. 



Nor can I not believe but tlmt hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for tluis I live re- 
mote 
From evil-speaking ; rancor, never 

sought, 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or 

lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have 

I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and 

joyous thought : 
And thus from day to day my little boat 
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
Blessings be with them — and eternal 

praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler 

cares — 
The Poets, who on earth have made us 

heirs 
Of truth and pure delight b)-^ heavenly 

lays ! 
Oh ! migiit my name be numbered 

among theirs. 
Then gladly would I end my mortal 

days. ISUG. 1807. 



so 



BRITISH POETS 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH 
US 

The world is too much with us ; late and 

soon , 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers : 
Little we see in Nature tiiat is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sor- 
did boon ! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the 

moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all 

hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of 

tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather 

be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant 

lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less 

forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the 

sea ; 
Or hear old Triton bk)w liis wreathed 

horn. 180G. 1«07. 

TO SLEEP 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurelj' pass 

by, 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and 

bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds 

and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, 

and pure sky ; 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet 

do lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' 

melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 

trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melanclioly cry. 
Even thus last night, and two niglits 

more, I lay. 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any 

stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and 

day. 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and jov- 

ous health ! ISOG. 1807.' 



XOVExAlBER, IbUG 

Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
The last that dare to struggle with the 

Foe. 
'Tis well ! from this day forward we 

shall know 
That in ourselves our safety must be 

sought ; 
That by our own riglit liands it must be 

wrouglit ; 
That we must stand iin propped, or be 

laid low. 
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 

cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the 

land 
Be men who hold its many blessings 

dear. 
Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile 

band, 
Wlio are to judge of danger which tliey 

fear, 
And honor which thev do not under- 
stand. " IfiOa. 1807. 

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE 
SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the 

.sea. 
One of the mountains ; each a miglity 

Voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst re- 
joice, 
Thej^ were thy choseTi music. Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with lioly 

glee 
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast 

vainly striven : 
Thou from thy Alpine liolds at length 

art driven. 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by 

tliee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been 

bereft : 
Tlien cleave, O cleave to tliat which still 

is left ; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow 

would it be 
That mountain floods should thunder as 

before, 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky 

shore. 
And neither awful Voice be heard by 

thee ? 1807. 1807. 



WORDSWORTH 



S^ 



HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIMS 
AT «LEAST THIS PRAISE 

Here pause : the poet claims at least this 

praise. 
That virtuous Liberty hath been the 

sco]ie 
Of his pure song, wliich did not shrink 

from liope 
In tlie worst moment of these evil days ; 
From hope, the paramount duty tliat 

Heaven lays, 
For its own honor, on man's suffering- 
heart. 
Never may from our souls one truth 

depart — 
That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled 

eye ; 
Nor — touched with due abhorrence of 

their guilt 
For whose dire ends tears flow, and 

blood is spilt, 
And justice labors in extremity — 
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built 
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
ISll. 1815. 

LAODAMIA 

Written at Rj'dal Mount. The incident of the 
trees growing and withering: put tlie subject into 
my tlioiiglits, and I wrote with tlie liope of giving 
it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been 
given to it by any of the Ancients who have 
treated of it. It cost me more trouble than al- 
most anything of equal length I have ever writ- 
ten . ( WordswortJt. ) 

"Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean 
original with reference to your own mannej-. 
You have nothing like it. I should have seen 
it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, 
but not suspected its derivation..." (Lamb 
to Wordsworth. Talfourd, Final Memories of 
Charles Lamb, p. 151.) 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 
Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
spired ; 
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades 

forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered Lord liave I 

required : 
Celestial pity I again implore : — • 
Restore him to my sight — great Jove, 
restore ! " 

So speaking, and b}' fervent love en- 
dowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward 
lifts her hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a 
cloud, 



Her countenance brightens — and her 
eye expands. ; 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stat- 
ure grows ; 

And siie expects the. issue in repose. 

terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O 

joy ! 

What doth she look on? — whom doth she 

behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ! 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ? 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her 

with his wand 
That calms all fear ; " Such grace hath 

crowned thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! tliat at Jove's command 
Thy Husband walks the paths of upper 

air : 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 

space : 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen ; 

her Lord to clasp ; 
Again that consummation she essayed ; 
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made, 
Tiie Phantom parts— but parts to re-unite. 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thj' 

voice : 
This is our palace, — j-onder is tin' throne ; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on 

will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon ; and blest a sad 

abode." 

" Great Jove. Laodamia ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I 
be, 

1 am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 

And somethingalso did my worth obtain : 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless 
gain. 

" Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle fore- 
told 

That the first Greek who touched the 
Trojan strand 

Should die ; but me the tiireat could not 
withhold ; 



52 



BRITISH POETS 



A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
And forth I leapt upon tlie sandy plain ; 
A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 

best! 
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Wliicli then, when tens of thousands 

were deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to tlie fatal 

shore ; 
Thoufound'st — and I forgive thee — here 

thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest 

deed , 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as 

brave : 
And he, wliose power restores thee, hath 

decreed 
Thou should'st elude the malice of. the 

grave : 
Redundant are tliy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessa- 

lian air. 

" No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow 

this ; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my 

side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one 

nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time tliy 

bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious 

Parcaj threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is 
past : 

Nor should the change be mourned, even 
if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as tliey vanisli. Eartli de- 
stroys 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; 

Calm i)leasures there abide — majestic 
pains. 

" Be taught, O faitliful Consort, to con- 
trol 
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the 

soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Tliy transports moderate ; and meekly 

mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — "' 



" Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by 

force 
Wiest from the guardian Monster of the 

tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 

bloom ? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of 

years. 
And ^son stood a j'outh 'mid youthful 

peers. 

•' The Gods to us are merciful — and thej-^ 
Yet further may relent : for mightier 

far 
Than strength of nerve and .sinew, or the 

sway 
Of magic potent over svm and star. 
Is love, thovigh oft to agojiy distrest. 
And though liis favorite seat be feeble 

woman's breast. 

" But if tliou goest, I follow — "" Peace ! " 
he said ; — 

She looked upon him and was calmed 
and clieered : 

Tlie gliastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his de])ortment, shape, and mien, ap- 
peared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy 
place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits 

feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and 

pure ; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to 

heal — 
The past unsighed for, and the future 

sure ; 
Spake of lieroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged 

tiiere 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid 

streams. 
An ampler etlier, a diviner air. 
And fields invested with purpureal 

gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the 

brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there tlie Soul shall enter wliich 

hath earned 
Tiiat privilege by virtue. " 111," said he, 
' ' The end of man's existence I discerned, 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 



WORDSWORTH 



53 



Could draw, when we had parted, vain 

delight, 
While tears were thy best pastime, day 

and night ; 

" And wliile my youthful peers before 
my eyes 

(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious entei'- 
prise 

By martial sports, — or, seated in the 
tent, 

Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
tained ; 

What time the fleet at Aulis l;iy en- 
chained. 

"The wished-for wind was given: — I 
then revolved 

The oracle, vipon the silent sea : 

And, if no worthier led the way, re- 
solved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should 
be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the 
strand. — 

Mine the first blood that tinged the Tro- 
jan sand. 

" Yet bitter, oft-times bitter was the 

pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved 

Wife ! 
On thee too fondly did my memory 

hang. 
And on the jovs we shared in mortal 

life.— 
The patlis which we had trod — these 

fountains, flowers. 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished 

towers. 

" But should suspense permit the Foe to 

cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 

array. 
Yet of their number no one dares to 

die ? ' 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty 

thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance 

wrought. 

" And Thou, though strong in love, art 

al} too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest re-union in the shades below. 



The invisible world with thee hath sym- 
pathized ; 
Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 

" Learn, bj' a mortal yearning, to as- 
cend — 

Seeking a higher object. Love was 
given, 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that 
end ; 

For this the passion to excess was 
driven — 

That self might be annulled : her bond- 
age prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to 
love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reap- 
pears ! 

Round the dear Shade she would have 
clung — "t is vain : 

The hovus are past — too brief had they 
been years : 

And him no mortal effort can detain : 

Swift, toward the realms that know not 
earthly day. 

He tlirough the portal takes liis silent 
way. 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse 
she lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity 

moved. 
Was (loomed to wear out her appointed 

time. 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather 

flowers 
Of blissful quiet "mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'er- 

thrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man 

alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was enter- 
tained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died ; 
And ever, when such stature they had 

gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their 

view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at the 

sight : 
A constant interchange of growth and 

blight ! ISU. 1815. 



54 



BRITISH POETS 



YARROW VISITED 

SEPTEMBER, 1814 

As mentioned in my verses on the death of the 
Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was 
in his company. We had lodged the night be- 
fore at Traquhair, where Hogg had joined us 
... I seldom read or think of this poem without 
regretting that my dear Sister was not of the 
party, as she would have had so much delight in 
recalling the time when, travelling together in 
Scotland, we declined going in search of this 
celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly 
confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem oii 
the occasion. ( Wordsivorth.) 

And is this— Yarrow ? — TJiis tlie Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O tliat some Minstrel's harj) were near. 

To utter notes of gladness. 

And chase tliis silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
And, through her depths, Saint Jlary's 

Lake 
Is visibly delighted ; 
For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale. 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth 

moun d 
On which the herd is feeding : 
And haply from this crystal pool. 
Now peaceful as the morning. 
The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength u£ sorrow, 



The unconquerable strength of love ; 
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed. 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the 

pom p 
Of cultivated nature ; 
And, rising from tho.se lofty groves. 
Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
Tlie shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening 

bloom, 
For sportive youth to stray in ; 
For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
And age to wear away in ! 
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
A covert for protection 
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 
The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 

The wild- wood fruits to gather. 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of Ijlooming heather ! 

And wliat if I enwreatiied nij^ own ! 

'Twere no offence to reason ; 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone. 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives^ 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
One hovir is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad thought, which I would banish. 
But tliat I know, where'er I go, 
Thy giMiuine image, Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me — to heighten joj% 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

ISI4. 1820. 



WORDSWORTH 



55 



TO B. R. HAYDON 

B. R. Haydon, the painter, was for many years 
a friend of Wordsworth. On November 37, 1815. 
Haydon wrote : " I have benefited and have been 
supported in the troubles of life by your poetry. 
. . I will bear want, pain, misery, and blindness ; 
but I will never yield one step I have gained on 
the road I am determined to travel over." 
Wordsworth's answer to this letter was the 
following sonnet. 

High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative 

Art 
(Whether the instrument of words she 

use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues.) 
Denianilw the service of a mind and heart, 
Thougli sensitive, yet, in their weakest 

part, 
Heroically fashioned — ^to infuse 
Faith in the wliispeis of the lonely Muse, 
AVhile the whole world seems adverse to 

desert. 
And, oh ! when Natiu-e sinks, as oft she 

may. 
Through long-lived jiressiu-e of obsciu'e 

distress, 
Still to be strenuous for tlie bright re- 
ward. 
And in the soul admit of no decay. 
Brook no continuance of weak-minded- 
ness — • 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 
1S15. 1816. 

NOVEMBER 1 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 
bright 

The effluence from yon distant mount- 
ain's head. 

Which, strewn with snow smooth as the 
sky can shed. 

Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 

Uprisen, as if to check approaching 
Night, 

And all her twinkling stars. Who now 
woidd tread. 

If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 
head — ■ 

Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 

Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 

Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the 
aerial Powers 

Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure. 

White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely 
pure, 

Through all vicissitudes, till genial 
Spring 

Has filled the laughing vales with wel- 
come flowers. 1S15. 1816. 



SURPRISED BY JOY — IMPATIENT 
AS THE WIND 

This was in fact suggested by my daughter 
Catherine long after her death. ( Wordsworth.) 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the 

Wind 
I turned to share the transport — Oh ! 

with whom 
But Tliee, deep buried in the silent tomb. 
That spot which no vicissitude can find V 
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 

mind — 
But how could I forget thee ? Through 

what power, 
Even for the least division of an hour. 
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
To my most grievous loss? — That 

thought's return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever 

bore. 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was 

no more ; 
That neither present time, nor years un- 
born 
Could to my sight that heavenly face 

restore. 1S15. 1815. 

HAST THOU SEEN, WITH FLASH 
INCESSANT 

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. 
Bubbles gliding under ice. 
Bodied forth and evanescent, 
No one knows by what device ? 

Such are thoughts ! — -A wind-swept 

meadow 
Mimicking a troubled sea. 
Such- is life ; and death a shadow 
From the rock eternity ! ' ISIS. 1820. 

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF 

EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR 

AND BEAUTY 



Had thisefl'ulgence disappeared 

With flying haste, I might have sent, 

Among the speechless clouds, a look 

Of blank astonishment ; 

But 'tis endued with power to stay, 

And sanctify one closing day. 

That frail Mortality may see — 

What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 

Time was when field and watery cove 



56 



BRITISH POETS 



With modulated echoes rang, 

Wliile choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each some 

sovereign height, 
Warbled, for heaven above and earth 

below. 
Strains suitable to both.— Such holy rite, 
Methinks. if audibly repeated now 
From liill or valley, could not move 
Sublimer transport, purer love. 
Than doth this silent spectacle — the 

gleam — 
The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 

II 
No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
And solemn harmony pervades 
The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
And penetrates tiie glades. 
Far-distant images draw nigh. 
Called forth by wondrous potency 
Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 
Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 
In vision exquisiteh'^ clear, 
Herds range along tlie mountain side ; 
And glistening antlers are descried ; 
And gilded flocks appear. 
Thine is tlie tranquil hour, purpureal 

Eve! 
But long as god- like wish, or hope 

divine, 
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
That tliis magiiilicpnce is wholly thine ! 
— From worlds not quickened by the sun 
A portion of the gift is won ; 
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 

spread 
On ground whicli British shepherds 

tread ! 

Ill 

And, if there be whom broken ties 

Afflict, or injuries assail, 

Yon liazy ridges to their eyes 

Present a glorious scale, 

Climbing suflfused with sunny air. 

To stop — no record hath told where ! 

And tempting Fancy to ascend. 

And with immortal Spirits blend ! 

— Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 

But, rooted liere, I stand and gaze 

On those bright steps that heavenward 

raise 
Their practicable way. 
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 

abroad. 
And see to what fair countries ye are 

bound ! 



And if some traveller, weary of his road, 
Hath slept since noontide on the grassy 

ground, 
Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
And wake him with such gentle heed 
As may attune his soul to meet the 

dower 
Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 



Such hues from tlieir celestial Urn 

Were wont to stream before mine eye, 

Wliere'er it wandered in the morn 

Of blissful infancy. 

This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For, if a vestige of those gleams 

Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calm- 
ness serve 

No less than Nature's threatening voice. 

If aught unworthj- be my choice, 

From Thee if I would swerve ; 

Oh, let thv grace remind me of the 
light"^ 

Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 

Which, at this moment, on my waking 
sight 

Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 

My soul, though yet confined to earth. 

Rejoices in a second birtli ! 

— "Tis past, the visionary splendour 
fades ; 

And night approaches witli her shades. 
i<S7,S'. 1820. 

SEPTEMBER, 1819 

Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed. 
The gentlest look of spring : 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 

No faint and hesitating trill. 

Such tribute as to winter chill 

The lonely redbreast pays ! , 

Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 

From social warblers gathering in 

Their harvest of sweet laj's. 

Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
And yellow on the bough : — 
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
Around a younger brow ! 



WORDSWORTH 



57 



Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 

Wide is the range, ami free the choice 

Of un discordant themes ; 

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 

Not less than vernal ecstasies, 

And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 

And they like Demi-gods are strong 

On whom the Muses smile ; 

But some their function have dis- 
claimed. 

Best pleased with what is aptliest 
framed 

To enervate and defile. 

Not such the initiatory strains 
Committed to the silent plains 
In Britain's earliest dawn : 
Trembled tlie groves, the stars grew 

pale. 
Wliile all-too-daringly the veil 
Of nature was withdrawn ! 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
When the live chords Alca?us smote. 
Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
Broke threateningly, in sjiarkles dire 
Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
L(jve listening wliile the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swayed 
Her own ^olian lute. 

ye. wlio patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
What rapture ! could j'e seize 
Some Tlieban fragment, or unroll 
One precious, tender-hearted, scroll 
Of pure Simonides. 

Tliat were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesj- ; a bursting forth 
Of genius from the dust : 
Wliat Horace gloried to behold. 
What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
Can haughty Time be just ! 

1S19. 1830. 

AFTER-THOUGHT 

1 THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my 

guide. 
As being past away. — Vain sjMupathies ! 
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my 

eyes, 



1 see wliat was, and is, and will abide ; 

Still glides tlie Stream, and shall for 
ever glide : 

The Form remains, the Function never 
dies ; 

While we. the brave, the might}', and 
the wise. 

We Men. who in our morn of youth de- 
fied 

Tlie elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 

Enough, if sometliing from our hands 
have power 

To live, and act, and serve the future 
hour ; 

And if, as toward the silent tomb we 

Througli love, tlnough hope, and faith's 

transcendent dower. 
We feel that we are greater than we 

know. 1S20. .1830, 

MUTABILITY 

From low to high doth dissolution 

climb. 
And sink from liigh to low, along a 

scale 
Of awiul notes, whose concord sliall not 

fail : 
A musical but melancholy chime. 
Which they can hear who meddle not 

witli crime, 
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
Truth fails not : but her outward forms 

that liear 
Tlie longest date do melt like frosty 

rime, 
That in the morning whitened hill and 

])lain 
And is no more ; drop like the tower 

subliiue 
Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
His crown of weeds, but could not even 

sustain 
Some casual shout tliat broke the silent 

air. 
Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 

1S21. 1832. 

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE 
CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 

Tax not the roj^al Saint with vain ex- 
pense. 

With ill-matched aims the Architect 
who planned — 

Albeit laboring for a scant}"^ band 

Of white-robed Scholars only — this im- 
mense 



58 



BRITISH POETS 



And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 

Give all thou canst ; high Heaven re- 
jects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 

So deemed the man who fashioned for 
the sense 

These lofty pillars, spi-ead that branch- 
ing roof 

Self-poised, and scooped into ten thou- 
sand cells, 

Where light and shade repose, where 
music dwells 

Lingering — and wandering on as loth to 
die ; 

Like thouglits whose very sweetness 
yieldeth proof 

That they were born for immortalitv. 
18:21. 1832. 

MEMORY 

A PEN— to register ; a key — 
That winds througli secret wards ; 
Are well assigned to Memoiy 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand ; 

Tliat, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand ; 

That smooths foregone distress, the 

lines 
Of lingering care subdues. 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 
And clothes in brighter hues ; 

Yet. like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Witiiin her lonely seat. 

Oh ! tliat our lives, which flee so fast. 
In purity were such. 
That not an image of the past • 
Sliould fear that pencil's touch ! 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene. 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene ; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep. 
To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
1SJ3. 1837. 



TO A SKY-LARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart 

and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy 

ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at 

will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that 

music still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady 
wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world 
a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more di- 
vine ; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never 
roam ; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven 
and Home ! 1S25. 1837. 

SCORN NOT THE SONNET 



Composed, almost extempare, in a short walk 
on the western side of Rydal Lake. ( Wordsworth.) 



Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 

frowned. 
Mindless of its just honors ; with this 

key 
Shakspeare urdocked liis heart ; the 

melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 

sound ; 
With it Camoens soothed an exile's 

grief ; 
Tlie Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante 

crowned 
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from 

Faery land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, 

when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his 

hand 
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence 

he blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
1SJ7. 1837. 



WORDSWORTH 



59 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 

Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on 
the right hand a little way leading up tlie middle 
road f roui Rydal to Grasmere. We have been 
in the habit of calling it tlie glow-worm rock 
from the number of glow-worms we have often 
seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of 
prinu-ose has, I fear, been washed away by the 
heavy rains. (Wordsworth) 

See Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 

A Rock there is wliose homely front 
Tlie passing traveller slights ; 

Yet there the glow-worms hang their 
lamps, 
Like stars, at various heights ; 

And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
The vernal breeze invites. 

What liideous warfare hath been waged, 
What kingdoms overthrown, 

Since fir.st I spied that Primrose-tuft 
And marked it for my own ; 

A lasting link in Nature's chain 
From highest heaven let down ! 

The flowers, still faithful to tiie stem.>j. 

Their fellowship renew ; 
The stems are faithfid to the root. 

That worketli out of view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 
Tliougii threatening still to fall ; 

The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
And God upholds them all : 

So blooms tins lonely Plant, nor dreads 
Her annual funeral. 



Here closed the meditative strain ; 

But air breathed soft that day. 
The hoary mountain-heights were 
cheered, 

Tlie sunny vale looked gay ; 
And to tlie Primrose of the Rock 

I gave this after-lay. 

I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers. 
Like Thee, in field and grove 

Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 
Than tremblings that reprove 

Our vernal tendencies to hope, 
Is God's redeeming love ; 

That love which changed — for wan dis- 
ease. 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for witiiered age — 

Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneficent. 



Sin-blighted though we are, we too. 

The reasoning Sons of Men. 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal summer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 
This prescience fi-oni on high, 

The faith that elevates the just, 
Before and when they die ; 

And makes each soul a separate heaven. 
A court for Deity. 1S31. 1835. 

YARROW REVISITED 

The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day 
passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends 
visiting the Banks of tlie Yarrow under his guid- 
ance, immediately before his departure from 
Abbotsford, for Naples. 

The title Yarroiv Revinited will stand in no need 
of explanation for Readers acquainted with the 
Author's previous poems suggested by that cele- 
brated Stream. {Wordsivorth.) 

The gallant Youth, who may have 
gained. 

Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on th;»t 
sweet day. 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling : 
But breezes played, and sunshine 
gleamed— 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 

For busy thoughts the Sti-eam flowed on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 
No public and no private care 

The freeborn mind enthralling. 
We made a day of happy hours. 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youtli appeared, the Morn of 
youth , 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy : 
Past, present, futuie, all appeared 

In harmony united, 



6o 



BRITISH POETS 



Like guests that meet, and some from 
far. 
By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging, 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Though we were changed and cliang- 
ing; 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
Tlie blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness, lingering j^et, 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon-hill and Clieviot 
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid. 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

Oh ! while thej' minister to thee, 

Eacli vying with the other. 
May Health return to mellow Age 

With Strengtli, her venturous brotlier ; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story. 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 

For Thou, upon a hundred streams. 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faitliful love, undaunted truth. 

Hast slied the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen. 

Wherever they invite Thee, 
At parent Nature's grateful call. 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Sucli looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her : 
Belield what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days. 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 
That mortals do or suflfei'. 



Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer ? 
Yea. what were mighty Natvire's self? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Un helped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 

Plays false witii our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah. no ! the visions of tlie past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changefnl Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that 
day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered ; 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last" Minstrel," (not the last !) 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy ])ensive duty. 
Well i)leased that future Bards should 
chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-liuht dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to tlie common sunshine, 
And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
1S31 i835. 

THE TROSACHS 

As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first 
seen the Trosaehs in her and Coleridge's com- 
pany. Tlie sentiment that runs through this 
Sonnet was natural to the season in which I 
again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and some 
other soiniets that follow were colored by the 
remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter 
Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he 
was going. ( Wordsworth.) 

There's not a nook within this solemn 

Pass, 
But were an apt confessional for One 
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn 

gone. 
That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
Withered at eve. From scenes of art 

which cliase 
That thought awaj', turn, and with 

watchful eyes 
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more 

clear than glass 



WORDSWORTH 



6i 



Untouclied, unbreathed upon. Thrice 

happy quest, 
If from a gokleu perch of aspen spi'aj' 
(October's workuiaiisliip to rival May) 
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
That moral sweeten by a heaven-tauglit 

lay. 
Lulling the vear. witli all its cares, to 

rest! " 1831. 1835; 

IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY 
LIGHT FROM HEAVEN 

If tliou indeed derive tliy light from 
Heaven , 

riien, to tlie measure of that heaven- 
born liglit, 

Sliiiie, Poet ! in thy place, and be content: 

The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 

And tliey tliat from tlie zenith dart tlieir 
bea.ms, 

(Visible tliough tliey be to half the earth. 

Though half a sphere be conscious of 
their brightness) 

Ai'e yet of no diviner origin. 

No purer essence, than the one that 
burns, 

Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 

Of some dark movmtain ; or than those 
whicli seem 

Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter 
lamps, 

Among the branches of the leafless trees. 

All are the undying olFspringof oneSire : 

Then, to tlie measure of tlie light voucli- 
safed. 

Shine, Poet ! in tli}^ place, and be con- 
tent. 1S32. 1836. 

IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY 
AND PAIN 

If tills great world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track ; 
If freedom, set. will rise agnin. 

And virtue, flown, come back ; 
Woe to tlie pnrl)liiid crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, from jiast or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear ! 

1S33. 1835. 

" THERE ! " SAID A STRIPLING, 
POINTING WITH MEET PRIDE 

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing 

with meet jiride 
Towards a low roof with green trees 

half concealed, 



" Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very 

field 
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." 

Far and wide 
A plain below stretched seaward, while, 

descried 
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran 

rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of eartli, sky, sea and air, was vivified. 
Beneath "the random hield of clod or 

stone " 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in 

flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural 

hour 
Have iiassed away ; less happy than the 

One 
That, l\y the unwilling ploughshare, died 

to prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love. 
1S33. 1835. 

MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UN- 
UPLIFTED EYES 

Most sweet it is with umiplifted eyes 
To pace the ground, if patli be there or 

none. 
While a fair region round the traveller 

lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
Pleased rather with some soft ideal .scene, 
Tlie work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation, slipping in between 
The beauty coining and the beauty gone. 
If Thought and Love desert us, from that 

day 
Let us break off all commerce with the 

Muse : 
With Thought and Love companions of 

our way, 
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
T'.ie Mind's internal heaven shall shed her 

dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

1833. 1835. 

EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE 
DEATH OF JAMES HOGGi 

When first, descending from the luoor- 

lands, 
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 

' Walter Scott died Sept. 21, 1833 

S. T. Coleridge " Jn'y 25, 1834 

Charles Lamb " I>ec. 27, 1834 

Geo. Crabbe " Feb. 3, 18.3-2 

Felicia Heniaus " May 16, 1834 



62 



BRITISH POETS 



Along a bare and open valley, 

The Ettrick Shepherd was nij- guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered 
Through groves tliat had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The mighty Minstrel breatlies no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
And death upon tlie braes of Yarrow, 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course. 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in 

earth : 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the inountain- 

summits. 
Or waves that own no curbing hand. 
How fast lias brother followed brotlier 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I. whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will drop and disappear ? " 

Our haughty life is crowned with dark- 
ness. 

Like London with its own black wreath, 

On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth- 
looking. 

I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why. 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep : 
For Her who, ere her summer faded. 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn 

Maid! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 

dead. November, 1SS5. 1836. 



A POET !— HE HATH PUT HIS 
HEART TO SCHOOL 

A Poet! -lie hath put his heart to 

school, 
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the 

staff 
Which Art hath lodged within his hand 

— must laugh 
B}' precept onh', and shed tears by rule. 
Thy Art be Nature ; the live current 

quaff. 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant 

pool, 
In fear that else, when Critics grave and 

cool 
Have killed him, Scorn should write his 

epitaph. 
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom 

unfold ? . 

Because the lovely little flower is free 
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, 

bold; 
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
But from its own divine vitalitv. 

IS 42. 1842. 

SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO 
SENSITIVE 

So fair, so sweet, witlial so sensitive. 
Would that the little Flowers were born 

to live. 
Conscious of half tlie pleasure which 

the}^ give ; 

That to this mountain-daisy's self were 

known 
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, 

thrown 
On the smooth surface of this naked 

stone ! 

And what if hence a bold desire should 

mount 
High as the Sun, that he could take 

account 
Of all that issues from his glorious 

fount ! 

So might he ken how by his sovereign 

aid 
Tiiese delicate companionsliips are 

made ; 
And how he rules the pomp of- light 

and shade ; 



WORDSWORTH 



63 



And were the Sister-power that shines 

bj- night 
So privileged, what a countenance of 

delight 
Would til rough the clouds break forth 

on human sight ! 

Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn 

thine eye 
On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky. 
Converse with Nature in pure sympa- 
thy ; 

All vain desires, all lawless wislies 
quelled, 

Be Tliou to love and praise alike im- 
pelled 

Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 
IS 45. 1845. 

THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF 
NIGHTLY STREAMS 

The unremitting A'oice of nightly 

streams 
Tliat wastes so oft, we think, its tune- 
ful powers. 
If neitlier soothing to the worm that 

gleams 
Through dew}' grass, nor small birds 

liushed in bowers. 
Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy 

flowers, — 
That voice of unpretending harmony 
(For who whatissliall measure by what 

seems 
To be, or not to be. 

Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?) 
Wants not a healing influence that can 

creep 



Into the human breast, and mix with 
sleep 

To regulate the motion of our dreams 

For kindly issues — as through every 
clime 

Was felt near murmuring brooks in 
earliest time ; 

As at this day, the rudest swains who 
dwell 

Where torrents roar, or hear the tink- 
ling knell 

Of watei'-breaks, with grateful heart 
could tell 1846. 1850. 

SONNET 

TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 

Affections lose their object ; Time 

brings forth 
No successors ; and, lodged in memory, 
If love exist no longer, it must die, — 
Wanting accustomed food, must pass 

from earth. 
Or never hope to reacii a second birth. 
Tliis sad belief, the happiest that is left 
To thousands, share not Thou ; howe'er 

bereft, 
Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a 

dearth. 
Though poor and destitute of friends 

thou art. 
Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race. 
One to whom Heaven assigns that 

mournful part 
The utmost solitude of age to face. 
Still shall be left some corner of the 

heart 
Where Love for living Thing can find a 

place. 1S4G. 1850. 



COLERIDGE 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

There is no " standard " edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works, though 
that edited by James Dykes Campbell nearly tills the place of one. The 
best editions are : the Pickering Edition, London, 181*7, 4 volumes ; re- 
issued by The Macmillan Co., with additions, in 1880 ; the Aldine Edition, 
2 volumes, 1885 ; the Riverside Edition (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) ; and 
the * Globe Edition, edited by James Dykes Campbell, 1 volume, 1893, 
(The Macmillan Co.). 

Biography 

GiLLM AX (James), The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Vol I, 1838 
(not completed). Ijuandl (Alois), Samuel Taylor Coleridge und die eng- 
lische Roman tik, Berlin, 1886. (English edition, by Lady Eastlake, as- 
sisted by the author, 1887). Traill (H. D.), Coleridge, (English Men of 
Letters Series), 1884. Caine (T. Hall), Coleridge (Great Writers Series), 
1887. * Campbell (James Dykes), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a Narrative 
of the Events of his Life, 1894. (See also Knight's Life of Wordsworth.) 

Persoj^al Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria. Table Talk. Letters, edited 
by Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Anima Poetse, Selections from the unpub- 
lished Note-Books of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, edited by Ernest Hartley 
Coleridge. Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge, 
edited by Thomas Allsop. Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge, edited 
by her daughter. Cottle (Joseph), Early Recollections of S. T. 
Coleridge. Talfourd (T. N.), Final Memorials of Lamb. Rohin- 
soN (H. C), Diary. Hazlitt (William), My First Acquaintance with Poets. 
Hazlitt (William), Spirit of the Age. Hazlitt (William), Lectures on 
the English Poets ; Lecture 8. De Quincey (Masson's Edition), Vol. 5, 
Coleridge and Opium-Eating. Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary 
Life. Wilson (John), Essays. Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Critical Essays : 
Coleridge's Literary Life. * Carlyle, The Life of John Sterling, Cha]). >k 
Lamb (Charles), Works: * Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago ; 
Recollections of Christ's Hospital ; On the Death of Coleridge. * Words- 
worth (Doroth}'), Recollections of a Tour in Scotland. Journal. 

64 



COLERIDGE 65 

Later Criticism 

Mill (J. S.), Dissertations and Discussions. Stephen (Leslie), Hours 
in a Library, Vol. III. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Lowell 
(J. R.), Prose Works. * Swinburxe (A. C), Essays and Studies. * Gar- 
nett (R.), Essays of an Ex-librarian : The Poetry of Coleridge. Robert- 
son (John M.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. Winter (W.), 
Shakespeare's England : At the Grave of Coleridge. Rossetti (W. M.), 
Lives of Famous Poets. Dowden (Edward), New Studies in Literature : 
Coleridge as a Poet. Dowden (Edward), French Revolution and Eng- 
lish Literature : Essay IV. Beers, English Romanticism in the Nine- 
teenth Century. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. Shairp 
(J, C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Calvert (G. IL), Biographic 
Aesthetic Studies : Coleridge, Shelley, Goethe. Mitchell (D. G.), Eng- 
lish Lands, Letters and Kings. Saintsbury (G.), Essays in English 
Literature : Coleridge and Southey. Birrell (Augustine), Obiter Dicta. 
Watson (William), Excursions in Criticism. 

Bayne (Peter), Essays, II. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. 
Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), 
English Poetry and Poets. Chancellor (E. B.), Literary Types. Chor- 
ley (Henry F.), Authors of England. Dawson (G.), Biographical Lec- 
tures. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Deshler (C. D.) 
Afternoons with the Poets. Devey (J.), Comparative Estimate of Mod- 
ern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry : Blake to Brown- 
ings Frothingham (O. B.), Transcendentalism in New England. Hall 
(S. C), Book of Memories. Hancock (A. E.), The French Revolution 
and the English Poets. Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three 
Englishmen. MacDonald (G.), England's Antiphon. O'IIagan (T.), Oc- 
casional Papers. Ossoli (M. F.), Art, Literature and the Drama. Reed 
(H.), Lectures on British Poets : II. Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry. 
Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. Shedd (W. G. F.), Lit- 
erary Essays. Swan wick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. 
THo:\rsoN (K. B.), Recollections of Literary Characters. Tifckerman 
(H. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Wotton (Mabel E.), Word Portraits. 

Memorial Verses, etc. 

Shelley, To Coleridge. * Rossetti (D. G.), Five English Poets: 
Sauuiel Taylor Coleridge. De Vere (Aubrey), Coleridge. Browning 
(E. B.), A Vision of Poets. Watts-Dunton (T.), Coleridge (in Stedman's 
Victorian Anthology.) Watson (William), Lines in a Fly-Leaf of Chris- 
tabel. Helljian (G. S.), Coleridge (in Stedman's American Anthology). 

Bibliography 

Shepherd (R. H.), Bibliography of Coleridge ; revised by W. F. Pri- 
deaux. Haney (J. L.), A Bibliography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

5 



COLERIDGE 



LIFE 

As late I journey'd o'er the extensive 

plain 
Where native Otter sports his scanty 

stream. 
Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain. 
Tlie glorious prospect woke nie from 

the dream. 

At every step it widen'd to my siglit. 
Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary 

Steep, 
Following in quick succession of delight. 
Till all — at once — did my eye ravish'd 



sweep 



May this (1 cried) my course through 
Life portray ! 

New scenes of wisdom may each step 
display. 

And knowledge open as my days ad- 
vance ! 

Till what time Death shall pour the un- 
darken'd ray. 

My eye shall dart thro' infinite ex- 
panse, 

And tl)Ought suspended lie in rapture's 
blissful trance. 

September, 17S9. 1834.1 

LINES 

ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 

O THOU wild Fancy, clieck tliy wing ! 

No more 
Those tliin white flakes, those purple 

clouds explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy 

flight 

1 The dates for Coleridge's poems are made up 
from the Shepherd-Prideaux and the Haney 
bibliographies, and from the excellent notes to 
Campbell's edition of the Poetical Works. 



66 



Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of 

light ; 
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends 

the day, 
With western peasant hail the morning 

ray ! 
Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures 

move, 
A shadowy train, across the soul of 

Love ! 
O'er disappointment's wintr^y desert fling 
Eacli flower that wreatlied tlie dewj' 

locks of Spring, 
Wlien blusliing, like a bride, from Hope's 

trim bower 
She leapt, awakened by the pattering 

shower. 
Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper 

gleam. 
Aid, lovely Sorceress I aid thy Poet's 

dream ! 
With faery wand O bid the Maid arise. 
Chaste Joyance dancing in lier bright- 
blue eyes : 
As erst when from the Muses' calm 

abode 
I came, with Learning's meed not un- 

bestowed : 
When as she twined a laurel round my 

brow. 
And met my kiss, and half returned my 

vow. 
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled 

heart. 
And every nerve confessed the electric 

dart. 

dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden lise. 
Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright- 
blue eyes ! 

When first the lark high-soaring swells 

his throat. 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the 

loud note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed 
lawn, 



COLERIDGE 



67 



I mark lier glancing mid the gleams of 

dawn. 
When the bent flower beneatli tlie niglit- 

devv weeps 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps. 
Amid tlie paly radiance soft and sad. 
Slie meets my lonely patli in moonbeams 

clad. 
With lier along the streamlet's brink I 

rove ; 
Witli lier I list tlie warblings of the 

grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice 

to float 
Lone wliispering Pity in each soothing 

note ! 

Spirits of Love ! ye lieard her name ! 

Obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt 

repair. 
Wlietlier on clustering jjinions ye are 

there. 
Where rich snows blossom on tlie 

Myrtle-trees, 
Or with fond languishinent around my 

fair 
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her 

hair ; 
O heed the spell, and hltlier wing your 

way. 
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was 

given 
Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of 

Heaven ! 
No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire 

know, 
No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's 

snow. 
A thousand Loves around her forehead 

fly: 

A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 

Love lights her smile — in Joy's red 
nectar dips 

His myrtle flower, and plants it on her 
lips. 

She speaks ! and hark that passion- 
warbled song — 

Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes, 
prolong. 

As sweet as when tliat voice with rap- 
turous falls 

Shall wake the softened echoes of 
Heaven's Halls ! 

O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wiz- 
ard's rod, 



Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful 

God ! 1 
A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem 
To shield my Love from Noontide's 

sultry lieam : 
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous 

boughs 
M}^ Love might weave gay garlands for 

her brows. 
Wlien Twilight stole across the fading 

viile. 
To fan my Love I'd be the Evening 

Gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling 

vest. 
And flutter my faint pinions on her 

breast ! 
On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by 

night. 
To soothe my Love with shadows of 

delight":— 
Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
And gaze upon her with a thousand 

eyes ! 

As wlien the Savage, wlio his drowsy 

frame 
Had basked beneatli tlie Sun's unclouded 

ilame. 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air. 
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's 

glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's 

sweep. 
And sad recalls the sunnj^ hour of 

sleep : — 
So tossed by storms along Life's wilder- 

ing Avay. 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless 

day, 
When by my native brook I wont to 

rove. 
While Ho]ie with kisses nursed the In- 
fant Love. 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so 

placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy 

current meek ! 
Dear native brook! where first young 

Poesy 
Stared wildh'-eager in her noontide 

dream ! 
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's 

cheek. 

1 I entreat tlie Public's pardon for having: care- 
lessly suffered to he printed such intolerable stuff 
as this and the thirteen following lines. They 
liave not tlie tiiei-it even of iiriyinality : as every 
thought is to be found in the (ireek" Epigrams. 
(From Coleridge's note in the Poems, 1796.) 



68 



BRITISH POETS 



As water-lilies ripple tlij^ slow stream ! 
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still 

is gay, 
Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a 

mellowed ray, 
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses 

wears, 
Where so ften'd Sorrow smiles within Jier 

tears ; 
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste 

employ, 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of 

joy! 
No more your sky-larks melting from the 

sight 
Shall tlirill the attuned heart-string with 

delight — 
No more shall deck your pensive Pleas- 
ures sweet 
With wreaths of sober hue my evening 

seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied 

scene 
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook 

between ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled 

song. 
That soars on Morning's wing j'our vales 

among. 

Scenes of my Hope ! the acliinge ye ye 

leave 
Like yon bright hues that paint the 

clouds of eve ! 
Tearful and saddening witli the saddened 

blaze 
Mine eye the gleam pursues vvitli wistful 

gaze : 
Sees shades on shades witli deeper tint 

iinpend. 
Till cliill and damp the moonless niglit 

descend, 1793. 179G. 

LEWTI 

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT 

At midnight by the stream I roved, 
To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

Tlie Moon was high, the moonlight 
gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamalia's stream : 

But the rock shone brigliter far, 
Tlie rock half sheltered from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — 



So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
Gleaming through her sable hair, 
Image of Le«ti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

I saw a cloud of palest lure. 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
With floating colors not a few. 

Till it reach'd the moon at last : 
Then the cloud was wholly bright. 
With a ricli and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek 

And with such joy I find my Lewti ; 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep ;i, flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my 

mind, 
If Lewti never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it floats away, 

Awa.y it goes ; away so soon ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray 

Away it passes from the moon ! 
How mournfully it seems to fly, 

Ever fading more and more, 
To joyless regions of the sky — 
And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be. 

When, Lewti ! on my coucii I lie, 
A d3ang man for love of tliee. 
Naj% treacherous image ! leave my 

mind — 
And yet, thou didst not look unkind, 

I saw a vapor in the sky. 

Thin, and white, and very liigh ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above. 
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have 

perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
'Nay, treacherous image ! leave my 

mind — 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip tiie crumbling banks for ever : 

Like echoes to a distant thunder. 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread, 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly 
tune ! 



COLERIDGE 



69 



beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lewti lies 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyrinth to thread. 
And creep, like thee, with soundless 

tread, 
I then migiit view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to mj* sight, 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently-swelling wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
And dreamt that I had died foi' care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 

110 J^. April 13, 1798. 

LA FAYETTE 

As when far off the warbled strains are 
heard 
That soar on Morning's wing the vales 

among ; 
Within his cage the imprisoned matin 
bird 
Swells the full chorus with a generous 
song : 

He bathes no pinion in the dewy light. 
No Fatlier's joy, no Lover's bliss he 

shares. 
Yet still the rising radiance cheers 
his sight — 
His fellows' freedom soothes the cap- 
tive's cares ! 

Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with 
startling A'oice 
Life's better sun from that long win- 
try night. 
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt 
rejoice 
And mock with raptures high the dun- 
geon's might : 

For lo ! the morning struggles into daj*. 
And Slavery's spectres shriek and van- 
ish from the rav ! 

ndJ^, December 15, 1794. 



REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT 
A PLACE OF RETIREMENT 

Sermoni propriora. — hor, 

Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
Peeped at the chamber-window. We 

could hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open 

air 
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the 

porch 
Thick jasmines twined : the little land- 
scape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed 

the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly 

call 
TJie Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen : methought. it calmed 
His tiiirst of idle gold, and made him 

muse 
With wiser feelings : for he paused, and 

looked 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all 

around, 
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round 

again. 
And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed 

Place. 
And we were blessed. Oft with patient 

ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's 

note 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered 

tones 
I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet 

girl ! 
Tlie inobtrusive song of Happiness, 
Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear ; when all 

is hushed. 
And the heart listens ! " 

But the time, when first 
Fi'om that low dell, steep up the stony 

mount 
I climbed with perilous toil and reached 

the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the 

bleak mount. 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin 

with sheep ; 
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the 

sunny fields ; 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'er* 

browed. 



70 



BRITISH POETS 



Now winding bright and full, witli naked 
banks : 

And seats, and lawns, tlie abbey and the 
wood. 

And cots, and hamlets, and faint city- 
spire ; 

Tlie Channel there, the Islands and white 
sails, 

Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills and 
slioreless Ocean — 

It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, me- 
thought, 

Had built liiin there a Temple : the 
whole World 

Seemed imaged in its vast circumfer- 
ence : 

No wisJi ] )V( )faned my overwhelmed heart. 

Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 

Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and naount 
sul)lime ! 

I was constrained to quit you. Was it 
riglit. 

While my unnumbered bretiiren toiled 
and bled, 

That I sliould dream away the entrusted 
hours 

On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward 
heart 

Witli feelings all too delicate for use? 

Sweet is the tear that from some How- 
ard's eye 

Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from 
earth : 

And he that works me good with un- 
moved face. 

Does it but half : he chills me while he 
aids. 

My benefactor, not my brother man ! 

Yet even tliis, this cold beneficence 

Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou 
scann'st 

The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 

Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun 
tlie wretched. 

Nursing in some delicious solitude 

Their slotliful loves and daintj^ sym- 
pathies ! 

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and 
hand, 

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless 
fight 

Of science, freedom, and the truth in 
Christ. 

Yet oft when after honorable toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves 

to dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 



Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping 

rose. 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet 

abode ! 
All ! — had none greater ! And that all 

had such ! 
Itmiglitbeso — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom 

come ! 1705. October, 1796. 

TIME REAL AND IMAGINARY 

AN ALLEGORY 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 

(I knew not where, but 'twas some 
faery place) 

Their iiinions, ostrich-like, for sails out- 
spread, 

Two lovely children run an endless race, 
A sister and a brother ! 
This far outstrij)t the other ; 

Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 

And looks and listens for the boy be- 
hind : 
For he, alas ! is blind ! 

O'er rough and smooth with even step he 
passed. 

And knows not whether he be first or 
last. 9K . . 1817. 

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY 
PRISON 

ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE 
INDIA HOUSE, LONDON 

In the .Tune of 1797 some long-expected friends 
paid a visit to the author's cottage ; and on the 
morning of tlieir arrival, he met witli an acci- 
dent, which disabled him from walking during 
the whf>le time of their stay. One evening, 
when they had left him for a few hours, he 
composed the following lines in the garden - 
bower. {Colcrklye.) 

Well, they are gone, and here must 1 

remain. 
This lime-tree bovver my prison ! I have 

lost 
Beauties and feelings, such as would 

have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance even 

when age 

' Inchiiled by Coleridge among his "Juvenile 
I'oems." There is no other evidence to indicate 
at what date it was written. See, however, a man- 
uscript note of 1811 on the same sub.iect, given 
in Anima Poetae at the beginning of Chapter 
VIII. 



COLERIDGE 



71 



Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! 

Tliey, meanwhile, 
Friends, whom I never more may meet 

again, 
On springy heath, along the hill-top 

edge, 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, 

percliance. 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, 

deep, 
And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
Where its slim trunk tlie asli from rock 

to rock 
Flings arching like a bridge ; — that 

branchless ash. 
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor 

yellow leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble 

still, 
Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my 

friends 
Behold the dark green file of long lank 

weeds, 
Tliat all at once (a most fantastic sight!) 
Still nod and drip beneath the djripping 

edge 
Of the blue clay-stone. 

Now, my friends emerge 
Beneath tlie wide wide Heaven — and 

view again 
The many steepled tract magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the 

sea, 
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose 

sails light up 
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt 

two Isles 
Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander 

on 
In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, 

most glad. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast 

pined 
And hungered after Nature, many a 

year. 
In the great City pent, winning thy way 
With sad yet patient soul, through evil 

and pain 
And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious 

Sun! 
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking 

orb. 
Ye purple lieath-fiowers ! richlier burn, 

ye clouds ! 
Live in the yellow light, ye distant 

groves ! 



And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my 

friend 
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I 

have stood. 
Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing 

round 
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth 

seem 
Less gross than bodily ; and of such 

hues 
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet 

he makes 
Spirits perceive his presence. 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am 

glad 
As I myself were there ! Nor in this 

bower, 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not 

marked 
Much that has sootlied me. Pale beneath 

the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I 

watched 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to 

see 
Tiie shadow of the leaf and stem above. 
Dappling its sunshine ! And that wal- 
nut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance 

lay 
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
Tliose fronting elms, and now, witli 

blackest mass 
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter 

hue 
Through the late twilight : and tliough 

now the bat 
Wheels silent by, and not a sw^allow 

twitters. 
Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I 

shall know 
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and 

pure ; 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
No waste so vacant, but may well 

employ 
Each faculty of sense, and keep the 

heart 
Awake to Love and Beauty ! and some- 
times 
'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
That we may lift the soul, and contem- 
plate 
With lively joy the joys we cannot 

sliare. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the 
last rook 



72 



BRITISH POETS 



Beat its straight path along the dusky 

air 
Homewards, I blest it 1 deeming, its 

black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in 

light) 
Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated 

glory, 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all 

was still. 
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a 

charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to 

whom 
No sound is dissonant whicli tells of 

Life. 1797. 1800. 



V 



KUBLA KHAN 



In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, 
then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm- 
house between Porlock and Linton, on the Ex- 
moor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In 
consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne 
had been prescribed, from the effects of which 
he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he 
was reading the following sentence, or words of 
the same substance, in Purchas's " Pilgrimage" : 
" Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to 
be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And 
thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed 
with a wall." The Author continued for about 
three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the 
external senses, during which time he has the 
most vivid confidence, that he could not have 
composed less than from two to three hundred 
lines ; if that indeed can be called composition 
in which all the images rose up before him as 
thing/i, with a parallel production of the corre- 
spondent expressions, without any sensation or 
consciousness of effort. On awaking he ap- 
peared to himself to have a distinct recollection 
of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, 
instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that 
are here preserved. At this moment he was un- 
fortunately called out by a person on business 
from Porlock, and detained by him above an 
hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his 
no small surprise and mortification, that though 
he still retained some vague and dim recollec- 
tion of the general purport of the vision, yet, 
with the exception of some eight or ten scattered 
lines and images, all the rest had passed away, 
like the images on the surface of a stream into 
which a stone has been cast, but, alas 1 without 
the after restoration of the latter. 

Then all the charm 
Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth ! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine 

eyes^ 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return I And lo, he stays, 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once 

more 
The pool becomes a mirror. 

(From The Picture ; or., the Lover'' s Resoht- 
tion) 

yet from the still surviving recollections in his 



mind, the Author has frequently purposed to 
finish for himself what had been originally, as it 
were, given to him. AOptoi' aSiov dcro), but the 
to-morrow isyet to come. {Coleridge'' s note, 1816.) 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
8o twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled 

round : 
And here were gardens bright with 

sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bear- 
ing tree ; 
And here were foi'ests ancient as the 

hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
But oil ! that deep romantic chasm 

which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 

cover ! 
A savage place ! as hoi 3^ and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was 

haunted 
By woman wailing.for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, witli ceaseless 

turmoil seething. 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were 

bi'eathing, 
A miglity fountain momently was 

forced : 
Amid wliose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragment.s vaulted like rebounding 

hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's 

flail: 
And 'jnid these dancing rocks at once 

and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy 

motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river 

ran, 
Tlien reached the caverns measureless to 

man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from 

far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was lieard the mingled 
measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice 1 



COLERIDGE 



73 



A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win 
me, 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them 

there. 
And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

1797. 1816. 

SONG FROM OSORIO 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
"With thy deep long-lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore, 
In a Chapel on the shore, 
Shall the Chaunters sad and saintly. 
Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
Doleful Masses chaunt for thee, 
Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the quiet moonlight sea : 

The boatmen rest their oars and say. 
Miserere Domine! 1707. 1813. 



/ 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
MARINER 1 

IN SEVEN PARTS 



Facile credo, plures esse Naturas Invisibiles 
quaiii visibilesin rerumuniversitate. Sed horurn 
omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gra- 
dus et eognationes et discrimina et singulorum 
munera ? Quid agunt ? quaj loca habitant ? 
Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingeniuna 
humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, 
non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, taiiquam in 
tabula, majoris et melioris mimdi imaginem 
contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodiernse vitie 
minutiis se coutrahat uimis, et tota subsidat in 



* The poem is here given in the text of 1839 
which is Coleridge's final version, the result of 
several revisions, most of which are impnive- 
ments over the first text of 1798. Instead of llie 



pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invi- 
gilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab 
incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. T. Burnet 
Archceol. Phil. p. 68. 

ARGUMENT » 

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven 
by storms to the cold Country towards the Soiith 
Pole ; and how from thence she made her course 
lo the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific 
Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; 
and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came 
back to his own Country. 

Part i 

'^ It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

'■ By thy long gray beard and glittering 

eye, 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened 

wide. 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met. the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

'• Tliere was a ship," quoth he. 

"Hold off! unhand me, gray -beard 

loon ! " 
Eftsoous his hand dropt he. 

3 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 



third stanza, for instance, the original text has 
the two following : 

But still he holds the wedding-guest — 

" There was a Ship," quoth he — 
" Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, 

Marinere! come with me." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

Quoth he, " There was a Ship—" 
" Now get thee hence, thou gray-beard Loon I 

Or my Stafl: shall make thee skip." 

For a full study of the different texts, see 
Prof. F. H. Sykes' Select Poems of Coleridge 
and Wordsworth, edited from Authors' Editions, 
Toronto, 1899. On the origin of the poem, see 
Biogruphia Literaria, Chap XIV, and Words- 
worth's account of it, quoted and discussed in 
H. D. Traill's Life of Coleridge, pp. 47-50. 

I In the editions of 1798 and 1800 only. 

' An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants 
bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one. 
[This and the folio iring notes, except those in 
brackets, are Coleridge^s running Siivimarj/ of 
the story, first printed in Sybilline Leaves, 1817.] 

' The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the 
eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained 
to hear his tale. 



74 



BRITISH POETS 



The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot clioose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

" The ship was cheered, the harbor 

cleared, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the lighthouse top. 

1 The sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he ! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

2 The bride hath paced into the hall. 
Red as a rose is she ; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
Yet he cannot clioose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

^ " And now the Storm-blast came, and 

he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
And forward bends liis liead. 
The ship drove fast, loud roared tlie 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-higli, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

' The Mariner tells how the ship sailed south- 
ward with a good wind and fair weather, till it 
reached the line. 

' The Wedding Guest heareth the bridal 
music ; but the Mariner continueth his tale. 

•■' The ship drawn by a storm toward the south 
pole. 

* The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where 
no living thing was to be seen. 



And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 

Tlie ice w^as here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 

howled. 
Like voices in a swound ! 

1 At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came ; 

As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a tliunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 

2 And a good south wind sprung up be- 

hind ; 
The Albatro.ss did follow% 
And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vesper* nine ; 

While all the night, through fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine." 

^ " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee 

thus !— 
Why look'st thou so?" — "With my 

cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross, 

Part ii 

" Tlie Sun now ro.se upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew be- 
hind. 
But no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

» Till a great sea bird, called the Albatross, 
came through the snow-fog, and was received 
with great joy and hospitality. 

2 And lo I the Albatross proveth a bird of godH 
omen, and foUoweth the ship as it returned 
northward through fog and floating ice. 

^ The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the 
pious bird of good omen. 



COLERIDGE 



75 



1 And I had done an hellish thmg, 
And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averred, I had killed the bird, 
That made the breeze to blow. 
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
That niade the breeze to blow ! 

2 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
The glorious Sun nprist : 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought tiie fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to 

slay. 
That bring the fog and mist. 

^ The fair breeze blew, the white foam 

flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

* Down dropt tiie breeze, the sails dropt 

down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

^ Water, water, everywhere. 
And all tlie boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 



1 His shipmates cry out against the ancient 
Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. 

2 But when the fog cleared off, they justify the 
same, and thus make themselves accomplices in 
the crime. 

^ The fair breeze continues ; the ship enters 
the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even 
till it reaches the Line. 

* The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. 

s And the Albatross begins to be avenged. 



1 And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fatliom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter 

drought. 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

2 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

Part hi 

"There passed a weary time. Each 

tViroat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A vveary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye ! — 

3 When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain sliajje, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

•* With throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we 

stood ! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
And cried, A sail ! a s;ul ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked. 
Agape they heard me call : 

1 A Spirit had followed them ; one of the in- 
visible inhabitants of this planet, neither de- 
parted souls nor angels ; concerning whom the 
learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Con- 
stantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be con- 
sulted. They are very numerous, and there is 
no climate or element without one or more. 

^ The shipmates, in their sore distress, would 
fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mari- 
ner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea- 
bird round his neck. 

' The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the 
element afar off. 

■• At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be 
a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his 
speech from the bonds of thirst. 



76 



ENGLISH POETS 



1 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

2 ' See ! see ! ' (I cried) ' she tacks no 

more ! 
Hither to work us weal. 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel ! ' 

The western wave was all aflame. 
The day was well-nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested tlie broad bright Sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 

3 And straight the Sun was flecked with 

bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat 

loud) 
How fast she nears and nears I 
Are tliose her sails that glance in the 

Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

* Are those her ribs though which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two? 
^ Is Death that woinan's mate ? 

6 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

' The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
' Tlie game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 



' A flash of joy. 

2 And horror follows. For can it be a ship that 
comes onward without wind or tide ? 

^ It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. 

* And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of 
the setting Sun. 

^ The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, 
and no other on board the skeleton-ship. 

" Like vessel, like crew ! 

' Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the 
ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the 
ancient Mariner. 



1 The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out. 
At one stride comes the dark ; 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

2 We listened and looked sideways up ! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp 

gleamed white ; 
Froin the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

^ One after one, hy the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 

pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

*Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

5 The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by. 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " — 

Part iv 

^ " I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand 

And thou art long, and lank, andbi'own, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand.'' 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinnj' hand, so brown." — 
® " Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 
Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

' No twilight within the courts of the Sun. 
- At tlie rising of the Moon, 
^ One after another 

* His shipmates drop down dead. 

^ But Life-in-Death begins her work on the 
ancient Mariner. 

" The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is 
talking to him. 

' [For the last two lines of this stanza, I am in- 
debted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delight- 
ful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with 
him and his si.ster, in the autumn of 1797, that 
this poem was planned, and in part composed. 
(Note of Coleridge, first printed in Sibylline 
Leaves, 1817) ] 

* But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his 
bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible 
penance. 



COLERIDGE 



11 



Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

1 Tlie many men, so beautiful ! 
And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on ; and so did I. 

2 1 looked upon the rotting sea. 
And drew my eyes away ; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there tlie dead men laj'. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked wliisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And tlie balls like pulses beat ; 

Fur the sky and the sea, and the sea and 

the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

3 The cold sweat melted from their 

limbs. 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
Tlie look with which they looked on me 
Had never jjassed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on higli ; 

But oh ! more horriljle than that 

Is a cvirse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 

curse, 
And yet I could not die. 

* The moving Moon went up the sky. 
And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside — 

' He despiseth the creatures of the calm. 

* And envieth that they should live, and so 
many lie dead. 

2 But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the 
dead men. 

* In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth to- 
wards the journeying Moon, and the stars that 
still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and every- 
wliere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their 
appointed rest, and their native country and 
their own natural homes, which they enter un- 
announced, as lords that are certainly expected, 
and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 



Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 

The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 

1 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell olf in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

1 watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

2 O happy livings things ! no tongue 
Tlieir beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

3 And I blessed them unaware : 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 
And I blessed them unaware. 

* The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

Part v 

" Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

5 The silly buckets on the deck. 

That had so long remained. 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drvmken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

■» By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's 
creatures of the great calm. 
2 Their beauty and their happiness. 

* He blesseth them in his heart. 

* The spell begins to break. 

'5 By grace of the holy M(jther, the ancient 
Mariner is refreshed with rain. 



78 



BRITISH POETS 



1 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear : 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a liundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were liurried about ! 
And to and fro. and in and out. 
The wan stars danced between. 

And tlie coming wind did roar more 

loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And tlie raiTi ])oured down from one 

black cloud ; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

Tlie thick black cloud was cleft, arid still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters sliot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell witii never a jag. 
A river steep and wide. 

2 The loud wind never reached the 

ship. 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and tlie Moon 
The dead men gave a gi"oan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all up- 
rose. 
Nor spake, nor moved tlieir eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved 

on ; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
/The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

Tlie body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and 1 pulled at one rope 
But he said nought to me." — • 

8 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " — 
" Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 

' He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights 
and commotions in tlie sky and tlie element. 

2 The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, 
and the ship moves on ; 

3 But not by the souls of the men, nor by 
demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed 
troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invo- 
cation of the guardian saint. 



'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Whicii to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawned — they dropped their 

arms, 
xVnd clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 

mouths. 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the Sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the skj-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments. 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
Anil now it is an angel's song. 
That makes tlie heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still tiie sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon. 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all niglit 

Singetha quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did bi-eatlie : 
Slowlj' and smoothly went tlie ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

1 Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow. 
The spirit slid : and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left ofl: their tune. 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
Witli a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the lilood into mj' head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

' The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole 
carries on the ship as far as the Line, in oljedi- 
ence to the angelic troop, but still requireth 
vengeance. 



COLERIDGE 



79 



1 How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare ; 

But ere my living life returned, 

1 heard and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

' Is it he ? ' quoth one. ' Is tliis the man ? 
By him who tlied on ci'oss. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In tlie land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

Tlie other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ■ The man hath penance 

done, 
And penance more will do.' 

Part vi 

first voice 

" ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE 

' Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean iiath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast— 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For slie guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! liow graciousl}^ 
She looketh down on him.' 

FIRST VOICE 

2 ' But why drives on that ship so fast. 
Without or wave or wind ? ' 

SECOND VOICE 

' The air is cut away before. 
And closes from behind. 

1 The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invis- 
ible inhabitants of the element, take part in his 
wrong: ; and two of them relate one to the other, 
that penance long and heavy for the ancient 
Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, 
who returneth southward. 

^ The Mariner hath been east into a trance ; 
for the angelic power causeth the vessel to 
drive northward faster than human life could 
endure. 



Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

1 I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather : 

"Twas nigiit, calm night, the Moon was 

higii, 
The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 

died, 
Had never passed away : 

1 could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

2 And now this .spell was snapt : once 

more 
I viewed the ocean green. 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Dotli walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turned round walks 

on. 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows, a friglitful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetlj^ blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

3 Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The liglit-hoiise top I see ? 

Is tliis the hill ? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree ? 

'The supernatural motion is retarded; the 
Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew. 

^ The curse is finally expiated. 

^ And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native 
country. 



BRITISH POETS 



We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with sobs did pray — 
' O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway.' 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass. 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonliglit lay% 
And the shadow of tlie Moon. 

The rock slione bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock : 
Tlie moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 

1 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colors came. 

2 A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

I turned my eyes upon tlie deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I tliere ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse tliere stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to tlie land. 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head w^as turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve ray soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 

* The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, 

* And appear iu their own forms of light. 



Part vii 

1 " This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which .slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come froni a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump : 

It is the moss that wholl}'^ hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neai'ed : I heard them 

talk, 
' Whj', this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and 

fair, 
That signal made but now ? ' 

2 'Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit 

said — 
' And they answered not our cheer ! 
The planks looked warped ! and see those 

sails. 
How thin they are and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 
W^hen the ivj'-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolf's young.' 

' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look '^ 
(The Pilot made reply) 
' I am a-feared.' — ' Pusli on, push on ! ' 
Said the Hermit cheeril}'. 

The boat came closer to the ship. 
But I nor spake nor stirred : 
The boat came close beneatli the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 

3 Under the water it rumbled on. 
Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split tlie bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

* Stunned by that loud and dreadful 

sound. 
Which sky and ocean .smote, 

1 The Hermit of the Wood, 

2 Approacheth the ship with wonder. 
2 The ship suddenly sinketh. 

* The ancient Mariner is saved in tlie Pilot's 
boat. 



COLERIDGE 



8i 



Like one that hatli been seven days 

drowned 
My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The Holy Hermit i-aised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : Tlie Pilot's boy 

Who nov?- doth crazy go 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see. 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 

1 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 

' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 

Forthwith this frame of mine was 

Avrenched 
With a woful agony, 
Wliich forced me to begin my tale ; 
And then it left me free. 

2 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns : 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door I 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

1 The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the 
Hermit to shrieve him ; and the penance of life 
falls on him. 

2 And ever and anon throughout his future life 
an agony constraineth him to travel from laud 
to land. 



O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely, 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk. 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray. 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

' Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He pi'aj'eth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been 

stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
He rose the morrow morn. 

1797-179S. 1798. 



1/ 



CHRISTABEL 



The first part of the following poem was writ- 
ten in the year one thousand seven hundred and 
ninety-seven, at Stowey, in the county of Somer- 
set. The second part, after my return from 
Germany, in the year one thousand eight hun- 
dred, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the latter 
elate, my poetic powers have been, till very 
lately, in a state of suspended animation. But 
as, in my very first conception of the tale, 
I had the whole present to my mind, with the 
wholeness, no less than with the liveliness of a vis- 
ion ; I trust that I shall be able to embody in 
verse the three parts yet to come, in the course 
of the present year. . . . 

I have only to add, that the metre of the 
Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, 
though it may seem so from its being founded 
on a new principle : namely, that of counting 
in each line the accents, not the syllables. 
Though the latter may vary from seven to 
twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found 



* And to teach, by his own example, love and 
reverence to all things that God made and 
loveth. 



82 



BRITISH POETS 



to be, only four. Nevertheless this occasional 
variation in number of syllables is not intro- 
duced wantonly, or for the mere ends of con- 
venience, but in correspondence with some tran- 
sition in the nature of the imagery or passion. 
(From Coleridge's Preface to the first edition.) 

PART THE FIRST 

'Tis the middle of niglit bj^ the castle 
clock, 

And the owls have awakened the crow- 
ing cock, 

Tu— wliit ! -Tu— wlioo ! 

And hark, again ! tlie crowing cock, 

How drowsily it crew. 

Sir lieoline, the Baron rich, 

Hatli a tootliless mastiff, which 

From her kennel beneath tlie rock 

Maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for tlie quarters, and twelve for 

the hour ; 
Ever and aye, by shine and sliower. 
Sixteen short howls, not over loud : 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is tlie night chilly and dark ? 
The night is ciiilly, l)ut not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray ; 
'Tis a montli before the month of May. 
And the Spring comes slowly up this 
way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

What makes her in the woods so late, 

A furlong from the castle gate? 

She had dreams all yesterniglit 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the jnidnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole alotig, she nothing spoke. 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And naught was green upon the oak 
But moss and rarest misletoe : 
She kneels lieneath the huge oak tree. 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly. 
The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
It moaned as near, as near can be. 
But what it is she cannot tell. — 
On the other side it seems to be. 
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak 
tree. 



The night is cliill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
That dances as often as dance it can. 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
On the topmost twig that looks up at 
the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she tiiere ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 
Drest in a silken robe of white, 
That shadowy in the mooidight shone : 
The neck that made the white rt)be 

wan , 
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, 
And wildly glittered here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess, "twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 

Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou? 

The lady strange made answer meet, 
And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness : 
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no 

fear ! 
Said Christabel, How camestthou here ? 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and 

sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet : 

My sire is of a noble line. 

And my name is Geraldine : 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn. 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and 

fright. 
And tied me on a palfrey white. 
The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
And they rode furiously behind. 
They spurred amain, their steeds were 

white : 
And once we crossed the shade of night. 
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
1 have no thought what men they be ; 
Nor do I know how long it is 



COLERIDGE 



83 



(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five. 

Took ine from tlie palfrej-'s back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades 

spoke : 
He placed me underneath this oak ; 
He swore they would return with haste ; 
Whitiier they went I cannot tell — 
I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
Sounds as of a castle bell. 
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her 

hand. 
And comforted fair Geraldine : 
O well, brig! it dame ! may you command 
The service of Sir Leoline ; 
And gladly our stout chivalry 
Will he send forth and friends withal 
To guide and guard you safe and free 
Home to your noble father's hall. 

She rose : and forth witli steps they 

passed 
That strove to be, and were not. fast. 
Her gracious stars the lady blest. 
And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
All our household are at rest 
The hall as silent as the cell ; 
Sir Leoline is weak in health. 
And may not well awakened be. 
But we will move as if in stealth. 
And I beseech your courtesj', 
This night, to share your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight. 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and 

without, 
Where an army in battle array had 

marched out. 
The lady sank, belike through pain. 
And Christabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
Over the threshold of the gate : 
Then the lady rose again. 
And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 
They crossed the court ; right glad they 

were. 
And Christabel devoutly cried 
To the lady by her side. 
Praise we the Virgin all divine 
Who hath rescued thee from thy dis- 
tress ! 



Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 
I cannot speak for weariness. 
So free from danger, free from fear, 
They crossed the court : right glad they 
were. 

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake, 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
Never till now she uttered yell 
Beneath tlie eye of Christabel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They passed the hall, that echoes still, 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 

The brands were flat, the brands were 

dying. 
Amid their own white ashes 15'ing; 
But when the lady passed, there came 
A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
And Clu'istabel saw the lady's eye. 
And nothing else saw she thereby. 
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 

tall. 
Which hung in a murky old niche in the 

wall. 
O softly tread, said Christabel, 
My father seldom sleepeth well. 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
And jealous of the listening air 
They steal their way from stair to stair 
Now- in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
And now they pass the Baron's room. 
As still as death, with stifled breath ! 
And now have reached her chamber 

door ; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The ruslies of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 
And not a moonbeam enters here. 
But they without its light can see 
The chamber carved so curiously. 
Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
All made out of the carver's brain. 
For a lady's chamber meet ; 
The lamp with twofold silver chain 
Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; 
But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
She trimmed the lamp, and made it 

bright, 
A.nd left it swinging to aiid fro, 
While Geraldine. in wretched plight, 
Sank down upon the floor below. 



BRITISH POETS 



weary lady, Geialdine. 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me, 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was born. 
1 have heard the gra}' -haired friar tell 
How on her death-bed slie did say. 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear ! that tliou wert here ! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 

But soon with altered voice, said she^ 
"Off, wandering mother! Peak and 

pine ! 
I have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! wliat ails poor Geraldine ? 
Wliy stares slie with unsettled eye ? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
"Off, woman, off ! this hour is mine — 
Though thou lier guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman, off ! 'tis given to me.'' 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
" Alas ! " said slie, " this gliastly ride — 
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you !"' 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
And faintly said, " 'tis over now ! " 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter briglit. 
And from the floor whereon she sank. 
The lofty lady stood upright : 
She was most beautiful to see, 
Like a lady of a far countree. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 

" All they who live in the upper sky, 

Do love you, holy Cliristabel ! 

And you love them, and for their sake 

And for the good which me befel. 

Even I in my degree will try. 

Fair maiden, to requite you well. 

But now unrobe yourself ; for I 

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 

Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress. 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 



That A'ain it were her lids to close ; 
So lialf-way from the bed she rose. 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in Iier breath aloud. 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
Tlie cincturp from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and lialf lier 

side 

A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 

O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! wliat a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems lialf-way 
To lift some weight witii sick assay, 
And ej'es the maid and seeks delay ; 
Tlien suddenly, as one defied, 
Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah wel-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
Tliese words did say : 
" In the touch of this bosom there 

worketh a spell, 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christa- 
bel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 

to-morrow, 
Tliis mark of my shame, this seal of my 
sorrow ; 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare. 

That in tlie dim foi'est 
Thou lieard'st a low moaning. 
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 

fair ; 
And didst bring her home with thee in 

love and in charity. 
To shield her and shelter her from the 
damp air." 

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Christabel, when she 
Was prajang at the old oak tree. 
Amid the jagged sliadows 
Of mossy leafless boughs. 
Kneeling in the moonlight. 
To make her gentle vows ; 



COLERIDGE 



85 



Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale. 
And both blue eyes more bright than 

clear, 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me I) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
Dreaming that alone, which is — 
O sori'ow and shame ! Can this be she. 
The lady, who knelt at the old oak 

tree ? 
And lo ! tlie worker of these harms. 
That holds the maiden in her arms, 
Seems to slumber still and mild, 
As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — - 
Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and 

rill, 
The night-birds all that hour were still. 
But now they are jubilant anew, 
From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — 

whoo ! 
Tu — wlioo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and 

fell! 

And see ! tlie lady Christabel 
Gatliers herself from out her trance ; 
Her limljs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth tliin 

lids 
Close o'er her eyes ! and tears she sheds — 
Large tears tliat leave the lashes brigliL ! 
And oft the while she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light ! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth 

weep. 
Like a youthful hermitess. 
Beauteous in a wilderness. 
Who, praying always, prays in sleej:). 
And, if she move unquietly, 
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
What if her guardian spirit 'twere. 
What if she knew her mother near? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes. 
That saints will aid if nu-n will call : 
For the blue sky bends over all ! 

1707. 1816. 



PART THE SECOND 

Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said. 
When he rose and found his lady dead : 
These words Sir Leoline will say 
]Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
Wiio duly pulls the heavy bell. 
Five and forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell I 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can ! 
There is no lack of such, I ween, 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
Who all give back, one after t'other. 
The death-note to their living brother ; 
And oft too, by the knell offended. 
Just as tlieirone ! two! three! is ended 
Tlie devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borrowdale. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white. 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
And nothing doul)ting of her spell 
Awakens the lady Christahfl. 
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and sjiied 
The same who lay down by her side — 
O rather say, the same wliom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air. 
Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
"Sure I have sinn'd !" said Christabel. 
'• Now heaven be praised if all be well ! " 
And in long faltering tones, yet sweet, 
Did she the lofty lady greet 



86 



BRITISH POETS 



With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He, who on the cross did groan, 
Might wash away her sins unknown, 
She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing botli into the hall, 
And pacing on tlirougli page and groom. 
Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

Tlie Baron rose, and while lie prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies. 
And gave svich welcome to the same, 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But w^hen he heard the lady's tale. 
And when she told lier fatiier's name. 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youtli ; 
But whispering tongues can poison 

truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be w-roth witli one we love 
Doth work like madness in tlie brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brotiier: 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either iound anotiier 
To free the hollow heart from pain- 

They stood aloof, the scars remammg. 

Like cliffs which liad been rent asunder; 

A dreary sea now flows between.. 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 

Shall wholly do away. I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face ; 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

O then the Baron forgot his age. 
His noble heart swelled higli with rage ; 
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 
He would proclaim it far and w^ide, 



With trump and solemn heraldrj-. 
That they, who thus had wronged the 

dame 
Were base as spotted infamy ! 
" And if they dare deny the same, 
My herald shall appoint a week. 
And let the recreant traitors seek 
My tourne)^ court — that there and then 
I may dislodge their reptile souls 
From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
He spake : his eye in liglitning rolls ! 
For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and 

lie kenned 
In the beautiful lady the child of his 

friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face, 

And fondly in liis arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met tiie embrace, 

Prolonging it with joyous look. 

Whicli when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

Slie shrunk and shuddered, and saw 

again — 
(Ah, woe is me ! AVas it for thee, 
Tiiou gentle maid ! such sights to see?) 
Again she saw tliat bosom old. 
Again she felt that bosom cold, 
And drew in her breath with a hissing 

sound : 
Whereat the Knight turned wildly 

I'ovxnd, 
And nothing saw, but his own sweet 

maid 
Witli eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 

Tlie touch, tlie sight, had passed away, 
And in its stead that vision blest, 
Which comforted her after-rest, 
Wliile in the lady's arms she lay. 
Had put a rapture in her breast. 
And on her lips and o'er her ej'es 
Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
•• What ails then my beloved child ? *' 
Tiie Baron said. — His daughter mild 
Made answer, '• All will yet be well ! " 
I ween, slie had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she 

blended. 
As if she feared she had offended 
Sweet Cliristabel, that gentle m;iid ! 
And with svich lowly tones she prayed 
She might be sent without delay 



COLERIDGE 



87 



Hotne to her father's mansion. 



"Nay 



Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 

" Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be 

thine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
And take two steeds with trappings 

proud. 
And take the youth wliom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
And over the mountains haste along. 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 

" And wiien he has crossed the Irthing 

flood. 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorien Moor, through Halegarth 

Wood, 
And readies soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's 

wastes. 
Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses 

are fleet, 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 

sweet, 
Jlore loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
Thy dau.n'Iiter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
Thy beautiful ilaughter is safe and free — 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids tlu^e come without delay 
With all thy numerous array ; 
And take thy lovely daughter home : 
And lie will meet thee on the way 
Witli all liis numerous array 
White with their panting palfrej^s' foam : 
And. by mine honor ! I will say. 
That I rei)ent me of the day 
Wlien i sjiake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vauxof Tryerniaine ! — 
— For since that evil liour hath flown, 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryerniaine." 

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, her e.yes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice. 
His gracious hail on all bestowing ; 
"Thy words, tliou sii"eof Christal)el, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me : 
That I had vowed with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 



For in my sleep I saw that dove. 

That gentle bird, whom tiiou dost love. 

And call'st by thy own daughter's 

name — 
Sir Leoline ! I saw the same. 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Among the green herbs in the forest 

alone. 
Which when I saw and when I heard, 
I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 
For nothing near it could I see, 
Save the grass and green herbs under- 
neath the old tree. 

" And in my dream, methought, I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on tlie ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coiled around its wings and neck. 
Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched : 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
The clock was echoing in tlie tower ; 
But though my slumber was gone by, 
Tliis dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this self-same day 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 

Half-listening heard Iiini with a smile ; 

Tlien turned to Lady Geraldine, 

His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 

And said in courtly accents fine, 

•' Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous 

dove. 
With arms more strong than harp of 

song. 
Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! " 
He kissed her forehead as he spake, 
And Geraldine in maiden wise 
Casting down her large bright eyes. 
With blusliing cheek and courtesy fine 
Slie turned her from Sir Leoline : 
Softly gathering up her train, 
Tiiat o'er her right arm fell again ; 
And folded her arms across her chest. 
And couched her head upon her breast, 

And looked askance at Christabel ^^ 

Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 



BRITISH POETS 



A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her 

head, 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
And with somewhat of malice, and more 

of dread, 
At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
But Christabel in dizzj^ trance 
Stumbling on the unsteadj^ ground 
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
And Geraldine again turned round. 
And like a thing, that sought relief. 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 

She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 

The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 

I know not how, in fearful wise, 

So deeply had she drunken in 

That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 

That all her features were resigned 

To this sole image in her mind : 

And passively did imitate 

That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 

And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 

Still picturing that look askance 

With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view 

As far as such a look could be 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 

And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
" By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send away ! " 
She said : and more she could not say : 
For what she knew slie could not tell, 
O'er mastered by the mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 
Sir Leoline? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
O, by the pangs of her dear mother. 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her, and thee, and for no other, 
She prayed the moment ere she died : 
Prayed that the babe for whom she died 
Might prove her dear lord's joy and 
pride ! 
Tliat prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 

Sir Leoline ! 
And wouldst thou wrong thv only 
child, 
Her child and thine ? 



Within the Baron's heart and brain 
If thoughts, like these, had any sliai'e. 
They only swelled his ]-age and pain, 
Ancl did but work confusion there. 
His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were 

wild, 
Dishonor'd thus in his old age ; 
Dislionor'd by liis only child, 
And all his hospitality 
To the insulted daughter of his friend 
By more than woman's jealousy 
Brouglit thus to a disgraceful end — 
He rolled his eye with stern regard 
Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
And said in tones abrupt, austere — 
" Why, Bracy ! dost tnou loiter here? 
I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed : 
And turning from his own sweet maid, 
The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 
Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 

ISOO. 181G. 

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND 

A little child, a limber elf, 

Singing, dancing to itself. 

A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 

That always finds, and never seeks. 

Makes such a vision to the sight 

As fills a father's eyes with light : 

And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 

Upon his heart, that he at last 

Must needs express liis love's excess 

With words of unmeant bitterness. 

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 

Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 

To mutter and mock a broken charm, 

To dally with wrong that does no harm. 

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 

At each wild word to feel within 

A sweet recoil of love and pity. 

And what, if in a world of sin 

(O sorrow and shame should tliis be 

true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain. 
So talks as it's most used to do. 

91801. 1816. 

. FRANCE: AN ODE 
I 

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and 

pause, 
Whose pathless march no mortal may 

control ! 
Ye Ocean Waves ! that, wheresoe'er 

ye roll. 



'^ 



X 



COLERIDGE 



89 



Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night- 
bird's singing, 
Midway the smooth and perilous slope 
reclined, 
Save when your own imperious bi'anches 
swinging. 
Have made a solemn music of the 
wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman 
trod, 
How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds 
I wound, 
Inspired beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude sha]>e and wild unconquer- 
able sound ! 
O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests 
high ! 
And O ye Clouds that far above me 
soared ! 
Thou rising sun ! thou blue rejoicing 
Sky! 
Yea, every thing that is and will be 

free ! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye 

be, 
Witli what deep worship I have still 
adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 



II 



When France in wrath her giant-limbs 
upreared, 
And with that oath which smote air, 

earth and sea, 
Stamped her strong foot and said she 
would be free. 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and 

feared ! 
With what a joy my lofty gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish hand : 
And when to whelm the disenclianted 
nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's 
wand. 
The Monarchs marched in evil day, 
And Britain join'd the dire array ; 
Though dear her shores and circling 
ocean. 
Though many friendships, many youth- 
ful loves 
Had swoln the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills 

and groves ; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang 
defeat 



To all that braved the tyrant-quelling 

lance, 
And shame too long delay' d and vain 

retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy 

flame ; 
But blessed the paeans of delivered 

France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's 

name. 



■' And what." I said, " though Blas- 
phemy's loud scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance 

strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken 
passions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was 
maniac's dream ! 
Ye storms, tliat round the dawning 
east assembled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his 
light ! 
And when to sootlie my soul, that 
hoped and trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed 
calm and bright ; 
When France her front deep-scarr'd 

and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of 
glory ; 
Wlien insupportably advancing, 
Her arm made mockery of the war- 
rior's ramp ; 
While timid looks of fury glancing. 
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her 
fatal stamp. 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his 
gore ; 
Then I reproached my fears that 
would not flee ; 
*' And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom 

teach her lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and 

groan ; 
And, conquering by her happiness 
alone, 
Shall France compel the nations to be 
free. 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call 
the earth their own." 



Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those 
dreams ! 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud 
lament, 



90 



BRITISH POETS 



From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns 
sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained 
streams ! 
Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
perished , 
And ye, tliat fleeing, spot your moun- 
tain snows 
With lileeding wounds ; forgive me, . 
that I cherished 
One thought that ever blessed your cruel 
foes ! 
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
Where Peace her jealous home had 
built ; 
A patriot-race to disinlierit 
Of all tliat made tlieir stormy wilds so 
dear ; 
And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint tlie bloodless freedom of the 

mountaineer — ■ 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adul- 
terous, blind. 
And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
Are these thy boasts. Champion of liuinan 
kind ? 
To mix with Kings in the low lust of 
sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murder- 
ous prey ; 
To insult the slirine of Liberty with spoils 
From freemen torn ; to tempt and to 
betray ? 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in 
vain, 
Slaves by their own compvilsion ! In 

mad game 
They burst tlieir manacles and wear 
the name 
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier 

chain ! 
O Liberty ! with profitless endea\or 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary 
hour ; 
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain 
nor ever 
Didst breatlie thy soul in forms of luiman 
power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise 

thee, 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays 
thee) 
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy 
minions. 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener 
slaves, 



Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and play- 
mate of the \^•aves ! 
And then I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's 
verge. 
Wlio.se pines, scarce travelled bj^ the 
breeze above. 
Had made one murmur w-ith the distant 

surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples 

bare. 
And shot mj^ being through earth, sea 
and air. 
Possessing all things with intensest 
love, 
O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
February, 170S. April 16, 1798. 

FROST AT MIDNIGHT 



The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's 

cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as 

before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
Have left me to that solitude, which 

suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my 

side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it dis- 
turbs 
And A'exes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and 

wood. 
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and 

wood. 
With all the numberless goings-on of 

life. 
Inaudible as dreams ! tlie thin blue 

flame 
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and cpiivers 

not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the 

grate, 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet 

thing. 
Methinks, its motion in tliis hush of 

nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who 

live. 
Making it a companionable form. 
Whose inmy flaps and freaks the idling 

Spirit 
By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of Thought. 



COLERIDGE 



91 



But O ! how oft, 
How oft, at scliool, with most believhig 

mind. 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
To watch tliat fluttering stranger ! and 

as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I 

dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old 

church-tower, 
Whose bells tlie poor man's only music 

rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair- 
day, 
So sweetly, tliat they stirred and 

haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine 

ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to 

come ! 
So gazed I, till tlie soothing things, I 

dreamt. 
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged 

my dreams ! 
And so I boded all the following morn. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, 

mine eye 
Fixed witli mock study on my swim- 
ming book : 
Save if the door half openeil, and I 

snatched 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped 

iip. 
For still I hoped to see the stranger s 

face, 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more be- 
loved, 
My play-mate when we botli were 

clotlied alike ! 
Dear Babe, tliat sleepest cradled by 

my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this 

deep calm, 
Fill up tlie interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of tlie thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills ni}' 

heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at 

thee. 
And think that tliou slialt learn far 

otlier lore, 
And in far other scenes ! For I was 

reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters 

dim, 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and 

stars. 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a 

breeze 



By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the 

crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath tiie 

clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes 

and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see 

and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligi- 
ble 
Of that eternal language, which tliy 

God 
Utters, who from eternity dotli teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
( Treat universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to 

thee. 
Whether the summer clothe the general 

earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit ami 

sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on tlie bare 

branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh 

thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the 

eave-drops fall 
Heard only in tlte trances of the blast, 
Or if the secret ministry of fiost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 

Febniary, 1798. 1798. 

LOVE 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
Wiien midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve: 
And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

Slie leant against the armed man, 

Tlie statue of the armed knight ; 

She stood and listened to my lay. 

Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 



92 



BRITISH POETS 



I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her liow he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain- 
woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome sliade 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous baud. 
And saved from outrage worse than 
death 
The Lady of the Land ! 

And how she wept, and clasped liis 

knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever sti'ove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

* 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — but wlien I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 



All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and deliglit. 

She blushed w'ith love, and vii-gin- 

shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

Slie half enclosed me wnth her arms. 
Slie pressed me with a meek embrace : 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Tvvas partly love, and pai-tly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
Tiie swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

Mv bright and beauteous Bride, 
" 170S-1790. December 21, 1799. 

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK 
LADIE 

A FRAGMENT 

Beneath yon birch witli silver bark. 
And boughs so pendulous and fair. 
The brook falls scattered down the rock : 
And all is mossy there ! 

And there upon the moss she sits, 
The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
The heavy tear is in her eye. 
And drops and swells again. 

Three times she sends her little page 
Up tlie castled mountain's breast. 
If he might find the Knight that wears 
The Griffin for his crest. 

The sun was sloping down the sky. 
And she had linger'd tliere all dny, 
Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
Oh wherefore can he stay ? 



COLERIDGE 



93 



Slie hears a rustling o'er the brook. 
She sees far off a swinging bough ! 
" 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 
Lord Falkland, it is Thou ! "' 

She springs, she clasps him round the 

neck. 
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
She quenches with her tears. 



" My friends with rude ungentle words 
They scoff and bid nie fly to thee ! 

give me shelter in thy breast ! 

O shield and shelter me ! 

" My Henry, I have given thee much, 

1 gave what I can ne'er recall. 

I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 
O Heaven ! I gave thee all." 

The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
While to his heart he held her hand, 
"Nine castles hath my noble sire, 
None statelier in the land. 

" The fairest one shall be my love's. 
The fairest castle of the nine ! 
Wait only till the stars peep out. 
The fairest shall be thine : 

" Wait only till the hand of eve 
Hath wholly closed yon western bars, 
And through the dark we two will steal 
Beneath the twinkling stars ! " — 

"The dark? the dark? No! not the 

dark ! 
The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? 

How ? 
O God ! 'twas in tiie eye of noon 
He pledged his sacred vow ! 

'• And in the eye of noon my love 
Shall lead me from my mother's door. 
Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
Strewing flowers before : 

' ' But first the nodding minstrels go 
With music meet for lordly bowers. 
The children next in snow-white vests. 
Strewing buds and flowers ! 

" And then my love and I shall pace. 
My jet black hair in pearly braids. 
Between our comely bachelors 
And blushing bridal maids." 



179S. 1834. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE. 
IN THE HARTZ FOREST 

I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and 

saw 
Woods ci'owding upon woods, hills over 

hills, 
A surging scene, and only limited 
By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
Downward I dragged through fir groves 

evermore. 
Where briglit green moss heaves in 

sepulchral forms 
Speckled with sunshine ; and, but sel- 
dom heard, 
Tlie sweet bird's song became an hollow 

sound : 
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
Preserved its solemn murmur most dis- 
tinct 
From many a note of many a waterfall. 
And the brook's chatter ; 'mid wliose 

islet-stones 
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I 

moved on 
In low and languid mood : for T had 

found 
That outward forms, the loftiest, still 

receive 
Their finer influence from the Life 

within ; — 
Fair cj^phers else : fair, but of import 

vague 
Or unconcerning, where the heart not 

finds 
History or j^rophecy of friend, or child. 
Or gentle maid, our first and early love, 
Or father, or the venerable name 
Of our adored country ! O thou Queen, 
Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
O dear, dear England ! how my longing 

eye 
Turned westward, shaping in the steady 

clouds 
Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 

My native Land ! 
Filled with the thought of thee this 

heai't was proud. 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that 

all the view 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody 

hills. 
Floated away, like a departing dream, 



94 



BRITISH POETS 



Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these im- 
pulses 

Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I pro- 
fane, 

With hastj^ judgment or injurious 
doubt, 

That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 

That God is everywhere ! the God who 
framed 

Mankind to be one mighty family. 

Himself our Father, and the World our 
Home. 
May 17, 1799. September 17, 1799. 

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY 

Tranquillity ! thou better name 
Tlian all the family of Fame ! 
Tliou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 
For oh ! dear child of thoughtful 

Truth. 
To thee I gave my early youth. 
And left tlie bark, and blest the stead- 
fast shore. 
Ere yet tlie tempest rose and scared me 
witli its roar. 

Who late and lingering seeks thy 

shrine. 
On him but seldom. Power divine, 
Tliy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee. 
Mock tlie tired worldling. Idle Hope 
And dire Eemembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the 

mind : 
The bubble floats before, the spectre 
stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 
At morning through the accustomed 

mead : 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
And when the gust of Autumn 

crowds. 
And breaks the busj' moonlight 

clouds. 
Thou best the thought canst raise, the 

heart attune. 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the 

gliding moon. 

The feeling heart, the searching 

soul, 
To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
And while within myself I trace 
The greatness of some future race, 
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 



The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood 

and guile. 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a 
smile ! ISUl. December 4, 1801. 

/dejection : AN ODE i 

Late, late yestreen I saw tlie new Moon, 
With the old Moon in her arms ; 
Ami I fear, I fear, my master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 



Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, 
who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick 

Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now. will not 
go hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier 

trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in 

lazy flakes. 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans 
and rakes 
Upon the strings of this ^olian 

lute, 
AVhich better far were mute. 
For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright I 
And overspread with phantom liglit. 
(With swimming phantom light o'er- 

spread 
But rimmed and circled b}- a silver 
thread) 
I see the old Moon in her lap. foretelling 
The comiug-on of rain and squally 
blast, 
And oh ! that even now the gust were 
swelling, 
And the slant night-shower driving 
loud and fast ! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, 
whilst they awed. 
And sent my soul abroad, 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse 

give, 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it 
move and live ! 



1 This Ode was originally written to William 
Wordswoi'th. who was addressed as '"Edmiiud" 
in tlie poem when first printed, on the daj' of 
Wordsworth's marriage, October 4, 1S03. In that 
copy, the name "Edmund" occurs at every point 
where "Lady" is found in the later versions and 
also where the name "Otway" occurs, in the 
seventh stanza : there is a corresponding differ- 
ence of the personal pronouns, and some other 
slight differences of text, the most important of 
which is in the conclusion, as noted below. 



COLERIDGE 



95 



A grief without a pang, void, dark, and 
drear, 
Astifled, drowsy, iinimpassioned grief , 
Which finds no natural outlet, no re- 
lief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

Lady ! in tliis wan and heartless mood. 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle 

woo'd, 

All tliis long eve, so balmy and serene, 

Have I been gazing on the western skj'. 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; 

And still I gaze — and with how blank 

an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes 

and bars, 
Tliat give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or 

between. 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but al- 

wa3^s seen ; 
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 



My genial spirits fail ; 
And what can these avail 
To lift tlie smotliering weight from ofT 
my breast ? 
It were a vain endeavor. 
Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green liglit that lingers in the 

west ; 
I may not hope from outward forms to 

win 
The passion and the life, whose foun- 
tains are witliin. 



O Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does Nature live ; 
Uurs is her wedding-garment, ours her 
shroud ! 
And would we aught behold, of higher 
worth. 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue 
forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be 
sent 
A sweet and potent voice, of its own 
birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 



O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask 

of me 
What this strong music in the soul may 

be! 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous 

mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making 

power. 
Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er 

was given. 
Save to the pure, and in their purest 

hour, 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once 

and shower, 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in 

dower, 
A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the 

proud — 
J03' is the sweet voice. Joy the luminous 

cloud — • 
We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear 

or sight, 
All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a suffusion from that light. 



There was a time when, though my path 
was rough. 
This joy within me dallied with dis- 
tress, 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
Whence Fancy made me dreams of 
happiness : 
For hope grew round me, like the twin- 
ing vine. 
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, 

seemed mine. 
But now aftiictions bow me down to 

earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my 
mirth ; 
But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my 
birth. 
My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must 
feel. 
But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 
From my own nature all the natural 

man — 
This was my sole resource, my only 
plan ; 



96 



BRITISH POETS 



Till that which suits a part infects the 

wliole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of 

my soul. 

VII 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around 
my mind. 
Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
Which long has raved unnoticed. 
What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthened out 
Tliat lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that 
rav'st witliout, 
Bare crag, or moiintain-tairn, or 
blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never 

clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' 
home, 
Methinks were fitter instruments for 
thee. 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of 

showers. 
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping 

flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than 

wintry song. 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaA^es 
among. 
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic 
sounds ! 
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold ! 
What tell'st thou now about V 
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with 
smarting wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and 

shudder with the cold ! 
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest 
silence ! 
And all that noise, as of a rushing 
crowd. 
With groans, and tremulous sliudderings 
— all is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less 

deep and loud ! 
A tale of less affright. 
And tempered with delight. 
As Otway's ^ self had framed the tender 
lay. 

1 In the first printed copy, " EdmiincVs,^'' re- 
ferring: to Wordsworth. The followinf; lines are 
evidently an allusion to Wordsworth's Liici/ 
Gray. The conclusion is as follows in the first 
printed copy ; 

With light heart may he rise, 

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. 
And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice .' 



'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her 

way ; 
And now moans low in bitter grief and 

fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to 
make her mother liear. 



'Tis midniglit. but small thoughts have 

I of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils 

keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of 
healing. 
And maj^ tliis storm be but a moun- 
tain-birth, 
ilay all tlie stars hang bright above her 
dwelling, 
Silent as though tliey watched the 
sleeping Eartli ! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. 
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her 
voice ; 
To her may all things live, from pole to 

pole. 
Tlieir life tlie eddyingof her living soul ! 

O simple spirit, guided from above. 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of mj- 

choice. 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore re- 
joice. 
Ajyi-il 4, 1S02. October 4, 1802. 

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE 
VALE OF CHAMOUNI 

Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which 
have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five 
conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and 
within a few paces of the glaciers the Gentiana 
Major grows in immense numbers, with its 
" flowers of loveliest blue." {Coleridge.) 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning- 
star 

In his steep course ? So long he seems 
to pause 



O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice, 

O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care, 

By the immenseness of the good and fair 

Which thou see'st everywhere, 

Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice. 

To thee do all things live from pole to pole. 

Their life the eddying of thy living soul 1 

O simple spirit, guided from above, 

O lofty Poet, full of life and love, 

Brother and friend of my devoutest choice, 

Thus may'st Thou ever, evermore rejoice 1 



COLERIDGE 



97 



On thy bald awful head, O sovran 

Blanc ! 
The Arve and Aiveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful 

Form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around tliee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 

black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest 

it. 
As with a wedge ! But when I look 

again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine, 
Tiiy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon 

thee. 

Till thou, still present to the bodily 
sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought : en- 
tranced ill prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet, we know not we are listening 

to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending 

with my Tliought, 
Yea, witii my Life and Life's own secret 

joy : 
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — tliere 
As in lier natural form, swelled vast to 

Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not onh' passive 

praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling 

tears. 
Mute tlianks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 

Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of 

the Vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the 

night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when 

tliey sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the 

dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter 

praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 

Earth ? 

7 



Who fill'd thv countenance with rosy 

light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely 

glad ! 
Who called you forth from niglit and 

utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called vou 

forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged 

rocks. 
For ever shattered and the same for 

ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, 

and your joy. 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence 

came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have 

rest ? 

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice. 

And stopped at once amid their maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the Gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
the sun 

Clothe j'ou with rainbows ? Who, with 
living flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at 
your feet ? — 

God ! let the torrents, like a shout of 
nations. 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, 
God! 

God ! sing ye meadow-sti-eams with 
gladsome voice ! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul- 
like sounds ! 

And they too have a voice, j'on piles of 
snow. 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
God! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
frost ! 

Ye wild goats sporting round tlie eagle's 
nest ! 

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain- 
storm ! 



98 



BRITISH POETS 



Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 

clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill tlie liills with 

praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un- 
heard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the 

pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy 

breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! 

thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed 

low 
In adoration, vipward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused 

with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the 

Eartli ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 

hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 

Heaven. 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent 

sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising 

sun 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises 

God. 

ISO?. September 11, 1803. 

THE GOOD. GREAT MAN 

" How seldom, friend ! a good great man 
inherits 
Honor or wealth with all liis w<n-th 
and pains ! 
It sovmds like stories from the land of 

spirits 
If any man obtain that which he 
merits 
Or any merit that which he obtains." 

REPLY TO THE ABOVE 

For shame, dear friend, renounce this 

canting strain ! 
What would'st thou have a good great 

man obtain ? 
Place? titles'? salary? a gilded chain ? 
Or throne of coi'ses wliicli his sword had 

slain ? 
Greatness and goodne.ss are not means, 

but ends ! 



Hath he not always treasures, alwaj^s 

friends. 
The good great man? tliree treasures, 

Love, and Light, 
And Calm THOUcmTS, regular as infant's 

breath : 
And three firm friends, more sure than 

day and niglit. 
Himself, liis Maker, and the Anuel 

Death ! 

ISO.?. September 23. 1802. 

THE PAINS OF SLEEP 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay. 

It hath not been my use to pray 

With moving lips or bended knees ; 

But silently, by slow degrees, 

My spirit I to Love compose, 

In humble trust mine eyelids close, 

With reverential resignation. 

No wish conceived, no thought exprest. 

Only a sense of supplication ; 

A sense o'er all my soul imprest 

That I am weak, yet not unblest. 

Since in me, round me. everj-where 

Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 

But yester-night I pray'd aloud 
In anguish and in agony, 
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured 

me : 
A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
Sense of intolerable wrong, 
And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
Thirst of revenge, tlie powerless will 
Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
On wild or liateful objects fixed. 
Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
And shame and terror over all ! 
Deeds to be hid which were not hid. 
Which all confused I could not know 
Whether I suffered, or I did : 
For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe. 
My own or others still the same 
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! 

So two nights passed : the night's dis- 
may 

Saddened and stunned the coming day. 

Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 

Distemper's worst calmity. 

The third night, when "my own loud 
scream 

Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 

O'ercome with sufferings strange and 
wild. 



COLERIDGE 



99 



I wept as I had been a cliilil : 
And having thus by tears subdued 
My anguish to a milder mood, 
Such punishments, I said. 'were due 
To natures deepliest stained witli sin : 
For aye entempesting anew 
Tlie unfatliomable liell witliin 
The horror of their deeds to view. 
To know and loathe, yet wisli and do ! 
Sucli griefs with such men well agree. 
But wlierefore, wlierefore fall on me ? 
To be beloved is all I need, 
And whom I love, I love indeed. 

IS03. 1816. 

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RE- 
CITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH 
OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND 

Friend of the wise ! and Teacher of the 

Good ! 
Into my heart liave I received that Lay 
More than historic, that prophetic Lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung 

aright) 
Of tlie foundations and the building up 
Of a Human Si)irit thou hast dared to 

tell 
What may be told, to the understanding 

mind 
Revealable ; and what Avithin the mind 
By vital breathings secret as the soul 
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the 

heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 

Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious 

fears 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin- 
birth). 
Of tides obedient to external force. 
And currents self-determined, as might 

seem, 
Or by some inner Power ; of moments 

awful, 
Now in tiiy inner life, and now abroad. 
When power streamed from thee, and 

thy soul received 
The liglit reflected, as alight bestoweil — 
Of fancies fair, and milder liours of 

youth, 
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy. in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous 

hills ? 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the 

stars 



Were rising : or by secret mountain- 
streams. 

The guides and the companions of thy 
way ! 

Of more than Fanc}% of the Social Sense 

Distending wide, and man beloved as 
man. 

Where France in all her towns lay vi- 
brating 

Like some becalmed bark beneath the 
burst 

Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when 
no cloud 

Is visible, or shadow on the maiUo 

For thou wert there, thine own brows 
garlanded. 

Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 

Amid a miglity nation jubilant. 

When from the general heart of human- 
kind 

Hope sprang forth like a full-born 
Deity ! 

Of that dear Hope afflicted and 

stiuck down, 

So summoned homeward, thenceforth 
calm and sure 

From the dread watch-tower of man's 
absolute self 

With light unwaning on her eyes, to 
look 

Far on — herself a glory to behold. 

The angel of the vision ! Then (last 
strain) 

Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice. 

Action and joy ! — An orphic song in- 
deed, 

A song divine of high and passionate 
thoughts 

To their own music chanted ! 

O great B:ird ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the 

air, 
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in tl>e 

choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly gre.'it 
Have all one age, and from one visible 

space 
Shed influence ! They, both in power 

and act, 
Are permanent, and Time is not with 

tlieTTi, 
Save as it worketh/or them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred Roll than those of old, 
And to be placed, as they, with gradual 

fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy 

work 



l.cf' 



lOO 



BRITISH POETS 



Makes audible a linked lay of Tiiitli, 
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous 

lay, 

Not learnt, but native, her own natui-al 

notes ! 
1 Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn, 
The pulses of my being Vieat anew : 
And even as life returns upon tiie 

drowned, 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of 

pains — 
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a 

babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
And fears self-willed, that shunned the 

eye of hope ; 
And hope that scarce would know itself 

from fear ; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come 

in vain, 
And genius given, and knowledge won 

in vain ; 
And all which I had culled in wood- 
walks wide. 
And all which patient toil liJid reared, 

and all 
Commune with thee had opened out — 

but flowers 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon 

my bier, 
In the same coffin, fur the self-same 

grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems 

it me. 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
Singing of glory, and futurity. 
To wander back on such unliealthful 

road. 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And 

ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal 

wreaths 

1 In place of this line and the next, there stooil 
in the manuscript copy of January IIjOT the 
following lines : 

Dear shall it be to every human heart, 
To me how more tlian dearest 1 me, on whom 
Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love. 
Came with such heights and depths of harmony. 
Such sense of wings unlifting. that its might 
Scatter'd and quell'd me, till my thoughts be- 
came 
A bodily tumult ; and thy faithful hopes, 
Thy hopes of me, dear Friend, by me unfelt ! 
Were troublous to me, almost as a voice. 
Familiar once, and more than musical ; 
As a dear woman's voice to one cast forth, 
A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn, 
Mid strangers pining with imtended wounds. 
O Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad 

years 
The long suppression had benumb'd my soul. . . . 



Strew'd before thy advancing ! 

Nor do thou. 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that 

hour 
Of tliy communion witli my nobler 

mind 
P>y pity or gi-ief, already felt too long ! 
Nor let my words import more blame 

tlian need.s. 
The tumult ro.se and ceased : for Peace 

is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a 

listening heart 
Amid the howl of more than wintry 

storms. 
The halcyon hears tlie voice of vernal 

hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve, 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense 

of Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake 

hailed 
And more desired, more precious, for 

thy song. 
In silence listening, like a devout 

cliild, 
My sovil laj'^ jiassive, by tliy various 

strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the 

stars, 
With momentary stars of mj^ own 

birth. 
Fair constellated foam, still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil 

sea. 
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to 

tlie moon. 

And when — O Friend ! my comforter 

and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give 

strength ! — 
Thy long sustained Song finally closed. 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet 

tliou tliyself 
Wert .still before my eves, and round us 

both 
Tliat fiappy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of 

its close 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or re- 
solve ?) 
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the 

sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in 

prayer, 

January, 1SU7. 1817. 



COLERIDGE 



SONG FROM ZAPOLYA 

A SUNNY shaft did I behold, 
From sky to eartli it slanted : 

And poised therein a bird so bold — 
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 

He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 
Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
All else of amethyst ! 

And thus he sang : Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's di'eams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms they make no delay ; 
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far far awav ! 

To-day f to-day ! IS 15. 1817. 

YOUTH AND AGE 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. 
Where Hojie clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woeful When ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and 

Then ! 
This breathing house not built with 

hands. 
This body that does me grievous wrong. 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands. 
How lightly then it flashed along : — 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
Tliatfear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Nought cared this body for wind or 

weather 
When Youtli and I lived in't together. 
Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 

! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah woeful Ere, 
Which tells me, Youth's nolonger here ! 
O. Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be tliat Thou art gone ! 
Tliy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd :^ 
And thou wert aj'e a masker bf)l(l ! 
AVhat strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make believe, that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 



This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is. life *s a warning 
That only serves to riiake us grieve, 

When we are old : 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking- leave 
Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismist ; 
Yet hatli out-stay'd his welcome while. 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

1S23— April, 1S3:2. 1828— June, 1832. 

W^ORK WITHOUT HOPE 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave 

their lair — 
The bees are .stirring — birds are on the 

wing — 
And Winter slumV)ering in the open air. 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of 

Spring ! 
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, 

nor sing. 
Yet well I ken the banks where ama- 
ranths blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams 

of nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for 

whom ye may. 
For me ye l)loom not ! Glide, rich 

streams, away ! 
With lips unbrigiitened, wreathless 

brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that 

drowse my soul ? 
AVork without Hope draws nectar in a 

.sieve. 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 
February, 1S27. 1828. 

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 

Of late, in one of those most weary 
hours. 

When life seems emptied of all genial 
powers, 

A dreary mood, Avhich he who ne'er has 
known 

May bless his hapjiy lot, I sate alone ; 

And, from the numbing spell to win re- 
lief, [grief. 

Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or 



BRITISH POETS 



In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watched the dull continuous 

ache, 
Which, all else slumbering, seem'd alone 

to wake ; 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet con- 

ceal. 
And soothe by silence what words can- 
not heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faer}^ 

The love, tlie joyaunce, and tlie gal- 
lantry ! 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
Like flocks a-down a newly-bathed steep 
Emerging from a mist : or like a stream 
Of mvisic soft, that not dispels tlie sleep, 
But casts in happier moulds the 

slimiberer's dream, 
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
The picture stole upon mj^ inward 

sight. 
A tremuloiis warmth crept gradual o'er 

my chest. 
As though an infant's finger touch'd my 

breast. 
And one by one (I know not whence) 

were brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd 

my thought 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
Of wonder, and in its own faiicies lost ; 
Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from 

above. 
Loved ere it loved, and souglit a form 

for love ; 
Or lent a lustre tf) the earnest scan 
Of manhood, musing wliat and whence 

is man ! 
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea- 

\vorn caves 
Rehearsed their war-spell to tlie winds 

and waves ; 
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic 

maids, 
That callM on Hertlia in deep forest 

glades ; 
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's 

feast ; 
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and 

priest. 
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long 

array. 
To high-church pacing on the great 

saint's day. 
And many a verse which to myself I sang. 



That woke the tear yet stole away the 

pang. 
Of hopes which in lamenting I lenew'd. 
And last, a matron now. of sober mien. 
Yet radiant still and with no earthly 

sheen. 
Whom as a faery child my childhood 

woo'd 
Even in my dawn of thought — Philos- 
ophy ; 
Though then unconscious of herself. 

l)ardie. 
She bore no other name than Poes^^ ; 
And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful 

glee. 
That had but newly left a mother's knee. 
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, 

and stone. 
As if with elfin playfellows well known, 
And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye. 
And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze 

stand. 
Now wander through the Eden of thy 

hand : 
Praise the green arches, on the fountain 

clear 
See fragment shadows of the crossing 

deer ; 
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
The crystal from its restless pool to 

scoop. 
I see no longer ! I myself am there, 
Sit on the ground-sward, and the 

banquet share. 
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echo- 
ing strings. 
And gaze upon the maid who gazing 

sings ; 
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 
Frow the high tower, and think that 

there she dwells. 
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand jjossest. 
And breathe an air like life, that swells 

my chest. 

The brightness of the world, O thou 

once free. 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and 

hills 
And famous Arno, fed with all their 

rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures 

thine. 
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine, 



COLERIDGE 



103 



Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. 
And forests, where beside Ids leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant 

horn , 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled 

thorn ; 
Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to 

their falls ; 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy- 
span , 
And Nature makes her happy home 

with man ; 
Wliere many a gorgeous flower is duly 

fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled 

bed, 
And wreathes the inarble urn, or leans 

its head. 
A mimic mourner, that witli veil with- 
draw ir 
Weeps liquid gems, tlie presents of the 

dawn ; — 
Tliine all delights, and every muse is 

thine ; 
And more than all, the embrace and 

intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling 

dance ! 

Mid gods of Greece and warriors of 

roinance. 
See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his 

knees 
The new found roll of old Masonides ; 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the 

heart, 
Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet 

smart ! ^ 

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage. 
Long be it mine to con tliy mazy page. 
Where half conceal'd, the eye of fancy 

views 
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all 

gracious to thy muse ! 

1 I know few more striking or more interesting 
proofs of the overwhelming influence wliich the 
study of tlie Greek and Roman classics exercised 
on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of 
the literati of Europe at the commencement of 
the restoration of literature, than the passage in 
the Filocopo of Boccaccio, where the sage in- 
structor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince 
and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned 
their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, 
Ovid's Art of Love. " Incomincio Racheo a 
mettere il suo officio in esecuzione con intera 
sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato 
a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro 
d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come 
i santi fuoclii di Venere si debbano ne' ifreddi 
cuori accendere." 



Still in thy garden let me watch their 

pranks. 
And see in Dian's vest between the 

ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half 

believes 
The vestal fires, of whicli her lover 

grieves. 
With tliat sly satyr peeping through the 

leaves ! 1S28. 1829. 

PHANTOM OF FACT 

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE 
AUTHOR 

A LOVELY form there sate beside my 

bed. 
And such a feeling calm its presence 

shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly 

leaven. 
That I unnethe the fancy might con- 
trol, 
'Tvvas my own spirit newly come from 

heaven, 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! the change — It liad not stirr'd, 

and yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I 

forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had 

mistook ! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing 

look ! 
"Tvvas all another, feature, look, and 

frame, 
And still, methought, I knew, it was 

the same ! 



This riddling tale, to what does it be- 
long ? 

Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 

Or rather say at once, within what 
space 

Of time this wild disastrous change took 
place ? 

AUTHOR 

Call it a momenfs work (and such it 

seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of 

dreams ; 
But say. that years matur'd the silent 

strife, 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 

1S30. 1834, 



SCOTT 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poetical Works, edited by William Minto, 2 volumes, Edinburgh, 
1887-88. Poetical Works, edited, with revision of text, by W. J. Rolfe, 
Boston, 1888. Poetical Works, edited by Andrew Lang, 2 volumes. The 
Macmillan Company. Poetical Works (Globe Edition), edited by F. T. 
Palgrave, The Macmillan Company (not complete). * Complete Works 
(Cambridge Edition), edited by II. E. Scudder, Houghton & Mifflin. Poems 
(The Aldine Poets), 5 volumes. The Macmillan Company. Comj)lete 
Poetical and Dramatic Works (Riverside Edition), 5 volumes, Hough- 
ton & Mifflin. Marmion (Students' Edition), edited by W. J. Rolfe, 
Houghton & Mifflin. * Marmion (Longmans' English Classics), edited by 
R. M. Lovett. 

Biography 

* LocKHART (J. G.), Life of Sir Walter Scott (The standard biograpliy). 

* HuTTON (R. II.), Scott, English Men of Letters Series (containing two 
chapters of excellent criticism on Scott's poetry). Yonge (C. D.) Scott, 
Gi'eat Writers iSeries. See also Scott's Journal and Letters. 

Critical Essays, etc. 

Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review, No. 32, Art. 1, Lady of 
the Lake ; No. 36, Art. 6, Vision of Don Roderick ; No. 48, Art. 1, Lord 
of the Isles. Also in his Critical Essays. Hugo (V.), Litterature et 
Philosophic (1834). Carlyle, Miscellanies, I. * Ruskin, P'ors Clavigera. 

* SnAiRP (Jolm C), Aspects of Poetry ; Homeric Spirit of Scott. * Pal- 
grave (F. T.), Introduction to Globe Edition of Scott's Poetical Works. 
Saixtsbury (G,), Essays on English Literature (Second Series). Rossetti 
(W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, 
Vol. 1. Presoott (W. II.), Biographical and Critical Miscellanies. Lang 
(A.), Letters to Dead Authors. Lang (A.), Essays in Little. Howells 
(W. D.), My Literary Passions. Hay (John), Speech at the Unveiling of 
the Bust of Scott in Westminster Abbey. Crockett (S. R.), The Scott 
Cou7itry. 

Bell (C. D.), Some English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), English Poetry 
and Poets. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey (J.), 
Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Minto (W.), Literature 
of the Georgian Era. Pierson (William), Epic Poems of Walter Scott, 
compared with the like Poetry of Thomas Moore. Reed (H.), Lectures 
on British Poets. Rushton (W.), Afternoon Lectures. Swanwick (A.), 
Poets the Interpreters of their Age. Wilson (J. G.), Poets of Scotland. 

104 



SCOTT 



WILLIAM AND HELEN 

Imitated from Burger's Lenore. See Lock- 
hart's Life of Scott, Volume I, Chap. 7. 

From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 
And eyed the dawning red : 

"Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 
O art thou false or dead ? " 

With gallant Frederick's princely power 

He sought the bold crusade, 
But not a word from Judah's wars 

Told Helen how he sped. 

With Paynim and with Saracen 
At lengtli a truce was made. 

And every knight returned to dry 
The tears his love had shed. 

Our gallant host was homeward bound 

With many a song of joy ; 
Green waved the laurel in each plume, 

The badge of victory. 

And old and young, and sire and son, 
To meet them crowd the waj'. 

With shouts and mirtli and melody, 
The debt of love to pay. 

Full many a maid her true-love met, 

And sobbed in his embrace. 
And fluttering J03' in tears and smiles 

Arrayed full many a face. 

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad. 
She sought the host in vain ; 

For none could tell her William's fate, 
If faithless or if slain. 

The martial band is past and gone ; 

She rends her raven liair. 
And in distraction's bitter mood 

She weeps with wild despair. 

*' O, rise, my child," her mother said, 

" Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 
A perjured lover's fleeting heart 

No teai's recall again." 



" O, Mother, what is gone is gone, 

What's lost forever lorn : 
Death, death alone can comfort me ; 

O had I ne'er been born ! 

" O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! 

Drink my life-blood. Despair ! 
No joy remains on e;utli for me, 

For me in heaven no share." 

" O, enter not in judgment. Lord ! " 

The pious mother prays ; 
" Impute not guilt to tli.y frail cliild ! 

She knows not what slie says. 

" O, say thy pater-noster. cliild ! 

O, turn to God and grace ! 
His will, that turned tliy bliss to bale. 

Can change tliy bale to bliss." 

" O mother, mother, what is bliss? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
My William's love was heaven on eartli, 

Without it earth is hell. 

" Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, 
Since my loved William's slain ':* 

I only pra3'ed for William's salce. 
And all my prayers were vain." 

" O, take the sacrament, luy child. 

And check these tears tliat flow ; 
By resignation's humble prayer, 

O, hallowed be thy woe ! " 

" No sacrament can quencli this fire. 
Or slake this scorching i)ain ; 

No sacrament can bid the dead 
Arise and live again. 

" O. break, my heart, O, break at once ! 

Be tliou my god. Despair ! 
Heaven's lieaviest blow has fallen on me, 

And vain each fruitless prayer." 

" O, enter not in judgment. Lord, 
With thy frail cliild of clay ! 

She knows not wliat her tongue has 
sjioke ; 
Impute it not, I pray ! 



105 



io6 



BRITISH POETS 



" Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 
And turn to Cxod and grace ; 

Well can devotion's heavenly glow 
Convert thy bale to bliss." 

" O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 

mother, what is bale ? 

Without my William what were heaven, 
Or with him what were hell ? " 

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, 
Upbraids each sacred power. 

Till, spent, she sought her silent room, 
All in the lonely tower. 

She beat her breast, she wrung her 
hands. 
Till sun and day were o'er, 
And through the glimmering lattice 
shone 
The twinkling of the star. 

Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell 
That o'er the moat was hung ; 

And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards 
The hoof of courser rung. 

The clank of echoing steel was heard 

As off the rider bounded ; 
And slowly on the winding stair 

A heavy footstep sounded. 

And hark ! and hark ! a knock — tap ! 
tap ! 

A rustling stifled noise ; — 
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 

At length a whispering voice. 

" Awake, awake, arise, my love ! 

How, Helen, dost thou fare? 
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st ! laugh'st thou, 
or weep'st ? 

Hast thought on me, my fair? " 

" My love! my love !— so late by night !— 

1 waked, I wept for thee : 

Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; 
Where, William, couldstthou be ? " 

" We saddle late — from Hungary 

I rode since darkness fell ; 
And to its bourne we both return 

Before the matin-bell." 

" O, rest this night within my arms, 
And warm thee in their fold ! 

Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
wind : — 
My love is deadly cold." 



"Let the wind howl through hawtliorn 
bush ! 

This night we must away ; 
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 

I cannot stay till daj^" 

"Busk, busk, and boune ! Thou mount'st 
behind 

Upon my black barb steed : 
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 

We haste to bridal bed." 

" To-night — to-niglit a hundred miles ! — 

O dearest William, stay ! 
The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal 
hour ! 

O, wait, my love, till day ! " 

" Look here, look here — the moon shines 
clear — 

Full fast I ween we ride : 
Mount and away ! for ere the day 

We reach our bridal bed. 

" The black barb snorts, the bridle 
rings ; 

Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee ! 
The feast is made, the chamber spread, 

The bridal guests await thee." 

Strong love prevailed : she busks, she 
bonnes. 

She mounts the barb behind. 
And round her darling William's waist 

Her lily arms she twined. 



And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, a^^^ 

As fast as fast might be ; 
Spurned from the courser's thundering 
heels 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

And on the right and on the left, 

Ere they could snatch a view, 
Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and 
plain, 

And cot and castle flew. 

" Sit fast — dost fear ? — The moon shines 
clear — 
Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! 
Fear'st thou ? '" — " O no ! " she faintly 
said ; 
" But why so stern and cold ? 

" What yonder rings ? what yonder 
sings ? 
Why shrieks the owlet gray ? " 
" 'T is death-bell's clang, 't is funeral 
song. 
The body to the clay. 



1 



SCOTT 



107 



'• With song and clang at morrow's 
dawn 

Ye may inter the dead : 
To-night I ride witli my young bride 

To deck our bridal bed. 

«' Come with thy choir, thou coffined 
guest. 
To swell our nuptial song ! 
Come, priest, to bless our marriage 
feast ! 
Come all, come all along ! " 

( "eased clang and song ; down sunk the 
bier ; 

The shrouded corpse arose : 
And hurry ! hurry ! all tlie train 

The thundering steed pursues. 

And forward ! forward ! on they go ; 

High snorts the straining steed ; 
Thick pants the rider's laboring breath. 

As headlong on they speed. 

" O William, why this savage haste ! 

And w^here thy bridal bed ? " 
•• 'Tis distant far, lovv% damp, and chill. 

And narrow, trustless maid." 

" No room for me ? " — " Enough for 
both ;— 
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course! " 
O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 
surge. 
He drove the furious horse. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
rode, 

Splash I splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

Fled past on right and left how" fast 
Each forest, grove, and bower ! 

On right and left fled past how fast 
Each city, town, and tower ! 

" Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
clear, 

Dost fear to ride with me ? — 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride ! " — 

" O William, let them be !— 

"See there, see there! What yonder 
swings 

And creaks, mid whistling rain ? " — 
" Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel ; 

A murderer in his chain. — 



'• Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 

To bridal bed we ride ; 
And thou slialt prance a fetter dance 

Before me and my bride." 

And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! 

The wasted form descends ; 
And fleet as wind through hazel bush 

The wild career attends. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
rode, 

Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

How fled what moonshine faintly 
showed ! 

How fled what darkness hid ! 
How fled the earth beneath their feet, 

The Heaven above their head ! 

' ' Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
clear. 

And well the dead can ride ; 
Dost, faithful Helen, fear for them? " — 

'" O leave in peace the dead ! " — 

' ' Barb ! Barb ! methinks I hear the cock, 

The sand will soon be run : 
Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 

The race is well-nigh done." 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
rode. 

Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is red. the spur drops blood, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

•Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead ; 

The bride, the bride is come ; 
And soon we reacli the bridal bed, 
For, Helen, here's my home." 

Reluctant on its rusty hinge 

Revolveil an iron door. 
And by the pale moon's setting beam 

Were seen a church and tower. 

With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
The birds of midnight scared ; 

And rustling like autumnal leaves 
Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 

O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 

He spurred the fiery horse. 
Till suddenly at an open grave 

He checked the w^ondrous course. 



io8 



BRITISH POETS 



The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 
Down drops the casque of steel, 

The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, 
Tlie spur his gory heel. 

The eyes desert the naked skull. 
The mouldering flesli the bone. 

Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
A gliastly skeleton. 

The furious barb snorts fire and foam, 

And with a fearful bound 
Dissolves at once in empty air, 

And leaves lier on the ground. 

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard. 

Pale specti'es flit along, 
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance. 

And howl the funeral song ; 

"E'en when the heart's with anguish 
cleft 
Revere the doom of Heaven, 
Her soul is from lier bodj-^ reft ; 
Her spirit be forgiven ! " 

17D5. 1796. 

THE VIOLET 

See Lockhart's life of Scott, Vol I, Chapter 
8, and the Century Magazine, July, 1899. 

The violet in her gi-een- wood bower. 
Where birchen boughs with hazels 
mingle. 

May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen or copse or forest dingle. 

Though fair her gems of azure hue. 
Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclin- 
ing ; 
I've .seen an eye of lovelier blue. 

More sweet through watery lustre 
shining. 

The sujumer sun tliat th^w shall dry 
Ere yet tlie day be jiMst its morrow. 

Nor longer in my false love's eye 

Remained the tear of parting .sorrow. 

1797. 1810. 

TO A LADY 

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL 

Take these flowers which, purple wav- 
ing, 

On the ruined rampart grew. 
Where, tlie sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 



Warriors from the breacli of danger 
Pluck no longer laurels there ; 

They but yield the passing stranger 
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's 
hair. 1707. 

THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 

The Baron of Smaylho'me ro.se witli 
day, 
lie spurred his courser on, 
Witliout stop or stay, down the rocky 
way, 
That leads to Brotlierstone. 

He went not with the l)old Buccleuch 

His banner broad to rear ; 
He went not 'gainst the English yew 

To lift the Scottish spear. 

Yet his plate-jack was braced and his 
helmet was laced. 
And his vavint-bi-ace of proof he wore ; 
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
sperthe. 
Full ten pound weight and more. 

The baron returned in three days' space 
And his looks were sad and soiu-; 

And weary was his courser's pace 
As he reached his rocky tower. 

He came not from where Ancrarn Moor 
Ran red with English blood ; 

Where the Douglas true and the bold 
Buccleuch 
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 

Yet was liis helmet hacdced and liewed, 

His acton pierced and tore. 
His axe and his dagger witli blood im- 
brued, — 

But it was not English gore. 

He lighted at the Chapellage, 

He held him close and still ; 
And he whistled thrice for his little 
foot-page. 

His name was English Will. 

" Come thou hither, my little foot-page, 

Come hither to my knee ; 
Though thou art young and tender of 
age, 

I think thou art true to me. 

" Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 

And look thou tell me true ! 
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have 
been. 

What did thy lady do V " 



SCOTT 



109 



" My lady, each niglit, sought tlie lonely 
light 
Tliat burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
For from height to height the beacons 
bright 
Of the English foemen told. 

" Tl)e bittern clamored from the moss, 
Tlie wind blew loud and slu'ill ; 

Yet tlie craggy patliway slie did cross 
To tlie eiry Beacon Hill. 

" I watched her steps, and silent came 
Where she sat her on a stone ; — 

No watchman stood by the dreary 
flame, 
It burned all alone. 

" The second night I kept her in sight 

Till to the fire she came. 
And, by Mary's might ! an armed 
knight 

Stood by the lonely flame. 

" And many a word that warlike lord 

Did speak to my lady tliere ; 
But the rain fell fast and. loud blew the 
blast, 

And I heard not what they were. 

" The third niglit there the sky was fair. 
And the mountain-blast was still. 

As again I watched the secret pair 
On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 

" And I heard her name the midnight 
liour, 
And name this holy eve ; 
And say. ' Come this night to thy 
lady's bower ; 
Ask no bold baron's leave. 

" ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
cleuch ; 
His lady is all alone ; 
The door she '11 undo to her knight so 
true 
On the eve of good Saint John.' 

" ' I cannot come ; I must not come ; 

I dare not come to tliee : 
On the eve of Saint John I must wan- 
der alone : 

In thy bower I may not be.' 

" ' Now, out on thee, faint-hearted 
knight ! 
Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers 
meet 
Is worth the whole summer's day. 



'• • And I'll chain the blood-hound, and 
the warder sliall not sound, 
And rushes shall be strewed on the 

stair ; 
So, by the black rood-stone and by 
lioly Saint John, 
I conjure thee, my love, to l)e tliere ! " 

" ' Tiiough the blood-houjidbe mute and 
the rush beneath my foot. 
And the warder his bugle should not 
blow. 
Yet there sleepeth a priest . in the 
chamber to the east. 
And my footstep he would know.' 

" ' O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to 
the east. 
For to Dryburgh the way lie has ta'en ; 
And there to say mass, till three days do 
pass. 
For the soul of a knight that is 
slayne. ' 

" He turned him around and grimlj^ lie 
frowned 
Then he laughed right scornfully — • 
' He wlio says the mass-rite for the soul 
of that knight* 
May as well say mass for me : 

" ' At the lone midnight liour when bad 
sjiirits have power 
In thy chamber will I be. — ' 
With tliat he was gone and my lad}' left 
alone. 
And no more did I see." 

Then changed, I trow, was that bold 
baron's brow 
From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
" Now, tell me tlie mien of the knight 
thou hast seen. 
For, by Mary, he shall die ! " 

" His arms shone full bright in tlie 
beacon's red light ; 
His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
On his shield was a hound in a silver 
leash bound, 
And his crest was a branch of the 
yew." 

" Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 
page. 
Loud dost thou lie to nie ! 
For that knight is cold and low laid in 
mould. 
All under the Eildon-tree." 



BRITISH POETS 



" Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! 

For I heard lier name his name ; 
And that lady bright, she called the 
kniglit 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame." 

The bold baron's brow then clianged, I 
trow, 
From high blood-red to ]iale — 
"The grave is deep and dark — and tlie 
corpse is stiff and stark — 
So I may not trust thy tale. 

" Where fair Tweed flows round holy 
Melrose, 

And Eildon slopes to the plain. 
Full three nights ago by some secret foe 

That gay gallant was slain. 

" The varying light deceived thy sight. 
And tlie wild winds drowned tiie 
name ; 
For the Dryburgh bells ring and the 
white monks do sing 
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 

He passed the court-gate and he oped tlie 
tower-gate, 
And he mounted *he narrow stair 
To the bartizan-seat where, with maids 
that on her wait. 
He found his lady fair. 

That lady sat in mournful mood ; 

Looked over hill and vale ; 
Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's 
wood , 

And all down Teviotdale. 

" Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright ! " 
" Now hail, thou baron true ! 

What news, what news, from Ancram 
fight? 
What news from the bold Buccleuch ! " 

" The Ancram moor is red with gore, 

F(jr many a Southern fell ; 
And Buccleuch has charged us evermore 

To watch our beacons well." 

The lady blushed red, but nothing she 
said : 
Nor added the baron a word : 
Then she stepped down the stair to her 
chamber fair. 
And so did her moody lord. 

In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron 
tossed and turned. 
And oft to himself he said, — 



" The worms around him creep, and his 
bloody grave is deep — 
It cannot give uj) the dead ! " 

It was near the ringing of matin-bell. 
The night was well-nigh done. 

When a heavy sleep on tliat baron fell, 
On the eve of good Saint John. 

The lady looked through the chamber 
fair, 
By the light of a dying flame ; 
And she was aware of a knight stood 
there — 
Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! 

" Alas ! away, away !" she cried, 
" For the holy Virgin's sake ! " 

" Lady, I know who sleeps bj' thy side ; 
But, lady, he will not awake. 

"By Eildon-tree for long nights three 

In bloody grave have I lain ; 
The mass and the death-prayer are said 
for me. 

But, lady, they are said in vain. 

' ' Bj' the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair 
strand. 
Most foully slain I fell ; 
And my restless sprite on the beacon's 
lieight 
For a space is doomed to dwell. 

"At our trysting-place, for a certain 
space, 
I must wander to and fro ; 
But I had not had power to come to thy 
bovver 
Hadst thou not conjured me so." 

Love mastered fear — her brow she 
crossed ; 

" How, Richard, hast thou sped ? 
And art thou saved or art thou lost ?" 

The vision shook his head ! 

" Who spilleth life shall forfeit life ; 

So bid thy lord believe : 
That lawless love is guilt above. 

This awful sign receive." 

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, 

His right upon her hand ; 
The lady shrunk and fainting sunk, 

For it scorched like a fiery brand. 

The sable score of fingers four 

Remains on that board impressed ; 

And forevermore that lady wore 
A covering on her wrist. 



SCOTT 



There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 

Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 
There is a monk in Melrose tower 

He speaketh word to none. 

That nun who ne'er beholds the clay, 
That monk wlio speaks to none — 

Tiiat nun was Smaj^lho'me's lad}' gay, 
That monk the bold baron. 

1799. 1801. 

CADYOW CASTLE 

When princely Hamilton's abode 
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers. 

The song went round, the goblet flowed. 
And revel sped the laughing hours. 

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound. 
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall. 

And echoed light the dancer's bound. 
As mirth and music cheered the hall. 

But Cadyow's towers in ruins laid. 
And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, 

Thrill to the music of the shade, 
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 

Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame 
You bid me tell a minstrel tale. 

And tune my liarp of Border frame 
On the wild banks of Evandale. 

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst 
turn. 

To draw oblivion's pall aside 

And mark the long-forgotten urn. 

Then, noble maid ! at thy command 
Again the crumbled halls sliall rise ; 

Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand. 
The past returns — the present flies. 

Where with the rock's wood-covered side 
Were blended late tlie ruins green, 

Rise turrets in fantastic pride 
And feudal banners flaunt between : 

Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
Was shagged with thorn and tangling 
sloe. 

The ashler buttress bi'aves its force 
And ramparts frown in battled row. 

'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 

And on the wave the warder's fire 
Is checkering the moonlight beam. 



Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 

The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay, 

And merry hunters quit the bower. 

Tlie drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
Clatters each plank and swinging 
chain. 

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 
Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. 

First of his troop, the chief rode on ; 

His shouting merry-men throng be- 
hind ; 
The steed of princely Hamilton 

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 

From the thick copse the roebucks 
bound, 
The startled red-deer scuds the plain, 
For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
Has roused their mountain haunts 
again. 

Through tlie huge oaks of Evandale, 
Whose limbs a thousand years have 
worn, 
What sullen roar comes down the gale 
And drowns the hunter's pealing 
horn ? 

Mightiest of all tlie beasts of chase 
Tliat roam in woody Caledon, 

Crashing the forest in his race. 

The Mountain Bull comes thundering 
on. 

Fierce on the hunter's quivered band 
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. 

Spurns with black hoof and horn the 
sand, 
And tosses high his mane of snow. 

Aimed well the chieftain's lance has 
flown ; 
Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
His roar is sunk in hollow groan — ■ 

Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the 
pryse ! 

' Tis noon — against the knotted oak 

Tlie hunters rest the idle spear ; 
Curls through the trees the slender 
smoke. 
Where yeomen dight the woodland 
cheer. 

Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, 
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 



112 



BRITISH POETS 



Yet missed his eye the boldest man 
That bore the name of Hamilton. 

"Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 

Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 
Why comes lie not our sjwrt to grace? 

Why shares he not our hunter's fare ? " 

Stern Claud replied with darkening 
face — 

Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he — 
"At merry feast or buxom chase 

No more the wairior wilt thou see. 

" Few svms have set since Woodhouselee 
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
foam, 
When to his hearths in social glee 

The war-worn soldier turned him 
home. 

" There, wan from her maternal throes, 
His Margaret, beautiful and mild. 

Sate in her bower, a pallid rose. 

And peaceful nursed her new-born 
child. 

' ' O change accursed ! past are those days ; 

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze. 

Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 

"What sheeted phantom wanders wild 
Where mountain Eske through wood- 
land flows, 

Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
O ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 

" The wildered traveller sees her glide. 
And hears her feeble voice with awe — 
'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's 
pride ! 
And woe for injured Bothwell- 
haugh ! ' " 

He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
Burst mingling from the kindred band, 

And half arose the kindling chief. 
And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 

But who o'er bush, o'er stream and rock. 
Rides headlong with resistless speed, 

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; 

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs 
glare. 
As one some visioned sight that saw. 



Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ? — 
'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 

From gorj' selle and reeling steed 
Sprung the tierce horseman with a 
bound, 

And, reeking from the recent deed, 
He dashed his carbine on the ground. 

Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
In good greenwood the bugle blown, 

But sweeter to Revenges ear 
To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 

' ' Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode 
At dawning morn o'er dale and down, 

But prouder base-born Murray rode 
Through old Linlithgow's crowded 
town. 

" From the wild Border's humbled side, 
In haughty triumph marched he, 

While Knox relaxed his bigot pride 
And smiled the traitorous pomp to see. 

" But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, 
Or Pom]), with all her courtly glare, 

The settled heart of Vengeance daunt. 
Or change the purpose of Despair ? 

" With hackbut bent, my secret stand. 
Dark as the purposed deed, I chose. 

And marked where mingling in his band 
Trooped Scottish pi^jes and English 
bows. 

" Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, 
Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 

And clashed their broadswords in the 
rear 
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. 

" Glencairn and stout Parkhead were 
nigh. 

Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 
And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 

" Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove. 
Proud Murray's plumage floated 
liigb ; 

Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
So close the minions crowded nigh. 

" Fi'om the raised vizor's shade his eye, 
Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along. 

And his steel truncheon, waved on high. 
Seemed marshalling the iron throng. 



SCOTT 



113 



" But yet his saddened brow confessed 
A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 

Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
•' Beware of injured Botliwellhaugh ! " 

"The death-shot parts! the charger 
springs ; 

Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
Aud Murray's plumy helmet rings — 

Rings on the ground to rise no more. 

" What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
To hear her love tlie loved one tell — 

Or he who broaches on liis steel 
The wolf by whom his infant fell. 

" But dearer to niy injured eye 
To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 

And mine was ten times trebled joy 
To hear him groan his felon soul. 

" My Margaret's spectre glided near. 

With pride her bleeding victim saw, 
And shrieked in liis death-deafened ear, 

' Remember injured Botliwellhaugh ! ' 

" Tlien speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 

Spread to the \vin<l tliy bannered tree ! 
Eacli warrior bend liis Clydesdale bow — 

Murray is fallen and Scotland free ! " 

Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
" Murray is fallen and Scotland freed ! 

Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of 
flame ! " 

But see ! the minstrel vision fails — 
The glimmering spears are seen no 
more ; 

The shouts of war die on the gales, 
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 

For the loud bugle pealing high. 

The blackbird whistles down the vale, 
And sunk in ivied ruins lie 

The bannei'ed towers of Evandale. 

For cliiefs intent on bloody deed. 

And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 
Lo ! liigh-born Beauty rules the steed, 

Or graceful guides the silken rein. 

And long may Peace and Pleasure own 
The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 
Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
On the fair banks of Evandale ! 

1801. 1803. 
8 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 

O, lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love in life's extremity 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower. 

And slow decay from mourning. 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's 
tower 

To watch her love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decayed by pining. 
Till through her wasted hand at night 

You saw the taper shining ; 
By fits, a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheek was flying ; 
By fits, so ashy pale she grew. 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear 

Seemed in her frame residing ; 
Before the watch-dog pricked liis ear, 

She lieard lier lover's riding ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned, 

She knew, and waved to greet him ; 
And o'er the battlement did bend. 

As on the wing to meet him. 

He came — lie passed — an heedless gaze, 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase. 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
Tlie castle arch, wliose hollow tone 

Returns each wliisper spoken. 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 

Which told her heart was broken. 

1806. 

HUNTING SONG 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
On the mountain dawns the day, 
All the jolly cliase is here. 
With hawk and horse and hunting- 
spear ! 
Hounds are in their couples yelling. 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 
•• Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

The mist has left tlie mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 

And foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in tliicket green ; 

Now we come to chant our lay, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 



114 



BRITISH POETS 



Waken, lords and ladies ga}', 
To the green-wood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies, 
Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks lie made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed ; 
You shall see him brought to bay, 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay."' 



Louder, louder chant the lay. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth and mirth and glee 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman, who can balk. 

Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? 

Think of this and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay, 1808. 



MARMION 



A TALE OF FJ.ODDEX FIELD 



See Lockharfs Life of Scott, Vol. Ill, Chap. 16. 



CANTO FIRST 



THE CASTLE 



Day set on Norham's castled steep. 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep. 

And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
The battled towers, the donjon keep. 
The loophole grates where captives 

weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 

In yellow lustre shone. 
The warriors on the turrets high. 
Moving athwart the evening sky. 

Seemed forms of giant height ; 
Their armor, as it caught the rays. 
Flashed back again the western blaze. 

In lines of dazzling light. 

Saint George's banner, broad and gay. 
Now faded, as the fading ray 

Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the donjon tower. 

So heavily it hung. 
The scouts had parted on their search, 

The castle gates were barred ; 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The warder kept his gviard. 
Low humming, as he paced along. 
Some ancient Border gathering song. 

A distant trampling sound lie hears ; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears. 
O'er Horncliff-hill, a plump of spears 

Beneath a pennon gay ; 
A horseman, darting from the crowd 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spui-s on his mettled courser proud. 

Before the dark array. 



Beneath the sable palisade 

That closed the castle l)arricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 

The warder hasted from the wall, 

And warned the captain in the hall, 

For well the blast he knew ; 
And joj'fully that knight did call 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

" Now^broaeh ye a pipe of Malvoisie, 

Bring pasties of the doe. 
And quickly make the entrance free, 
And bid my heralds ready be. 
And every minstrel sound his glee, 

And all ovir trumpets blow ; 
And, from the platform, spare ye not 
To fire a noble salvo-shot ; 

Lord Marmion waits below ! " 
Then to the castle's lower ward 

Sped forty yeomen tall. 
The iron-studded gates unbarred. 
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard. 
The lofty palisade unsparred. 

And let the drawbridge fall. 

Along the bridge Lord IMarmion rode, 
Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 
His helm hung at the saddle bow ; 
Well by his visage you might know 
He was a stalworth knight and keen. 
And had in many a battle been ; 
Th6 scar on Iiis brown cheek revealed 
A token true of Bosworth field : 
His eyebrow dark and eye of fire 
Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire. 
Yet lines of thouglit upon his cheek 
Did deep design and counsel speak. 
His forehead, by his casque worn bare. 
His thick moustache and curly hair, 
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, 
But more through toil than age, 



/•^ 



SCOTT 



lis 



His square-turned joints and strength of 

limb, 
) Showed him no carpet kniglit so trim, 
But in close fight a cliampion grim, 
In camps a leader sage. 

Well was he armed from iiead to heel, 

In mail and plate of Milan steel ; 

But his strong helm, of miglity cost. 

Was all with burnished gold embossed. 

Amid tiie plumage of tlie ci'est 

A falcon hovered on lier nest. 

With wings outspread and forward 

breast ; 
E'en such a falcon, on his sliield, 
Soared sal)le in an azure field : 
The golden legend bore aright, 
" Who checks at me. to deatii is diglit." 
Blue was the charger's broidered rein ; 
Blue ribbons decked his arcliing mane ; 
Tiie knightly housing's ample fold 
Was velvet blue and trapped with gold. 

Beliind him rode two gallant squires, 
Of noble name and knigiitly sires : 
They burned tlie gilded spurs to claim, 
For well could eacli a war-horse tame. 
Could draw the bow, the sword could 

sway, 
And liglitly bear the ring away ; 
Nor less with courteous precepts stored. 
Could tlan(!e in hall, and carve at board. 
And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
And sing them to a lady fail*. 

Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ; 
They bore Lord Marmion"s lance so 

strong 
And led his sumpter-mules along. 
And ambling palfrey, when at need 
Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
Tiie last and trustiest of the four 
On high his forky pennon bore ; 
Like swallow's tail in shape and line, 
Fluttered the streamer glossy blue. 
Where, blazoned sable, as before, 
Tlie towering falcon seemed to soar. 
Last, twenty yeomen, two and two 
In hosen black and jerkins blue. 
With falcons broidered on each breast, 
Attendetl on their lord's behest. 
Each, chosen for an archer good. 
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ; 
Each one a, six-foot bow could bend. 
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ; 
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
And at their belts their quivers rung. 
Tlieir dusty palfreys and array 
Showeil they had marched a weary way. 



'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
How fairly armed, and ordered how, 

The soldiers of the guard. 
With musket, pike, and morion, 
To welcome noble Marmion, 

Stood in the castle -yard ; 
Minstrels and trumpeters were there. 
The gunner held his linstock yare. 

For welcome-shot prepared : 
Entered the train, and such a clang 
As then through all his turrets rang 

Old Norhani never heard. 

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 

The trumpets flourished brave, 
The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 

And thundering welcome gave. 
A blithe salute, in martial sort. 

The minstrels well might sound. 
For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court, 

He scattered angels round. 
"Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 

Stout heart and open hand ! 
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan. 

Thou flower of English land ! " 

Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck, 
With silver scutcheon round tlieir neck, 

Stood on the steps of stone 
By which you reach the donjon gate. 
And there, with herald pomp and state. 

They hailed Lord Marmion : * 

They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town ; 
And he, their courtesy to requite, 
Gave tiiem a chain of twelve marks 
weight. 

All as he lighted down. 
" Now, lai-gesse, largesse. Lord Marmion, 

Kufght of the crest of gold ! 
A blazoned shield, in battle won. 

Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 

They marshalled him to the castle-hall, 

Where the guests stood all aside. 
And loudly flourished the trumpet-call. 

And the heralds loudly cried. — • 
" Room, lordlings, I'oom for Lord Mar- 
mion, 

With the crest and helm of gold I 
Full well we know the trophies won 

In the lists at Cottiswold : 
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 

'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
To him he lost his lady-love. 

And to the king his land. 
Ourselves beheld the listed field, 

A sight both sad and fair ; 



L 



ii6 



BRITISH POETS 



We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield, 

And saw his saddle bare ; 
We saw the victor win the crest 

He wears witli worthy pride. 
And ou the gibbet-tree, reversed, 

Hisfoeman's scutcheon tied. 
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight ! 

Room, room, ye gentles gay. 
For him who conqnered in tlie right, 

Marmion of Fontenaye ! "' 

Then stepped, to meet that noble lord, 

Sir Hugh tlie Heron bold, 
Baron of Twisell and of Ford, 

And Captain of the Hold ; 
He led Lord Marmion to tlie deas. 

Raised o'er the pavement high, 
And placed him in the upper place — 

They feasted full and high : 
The whiles a Northern liarjjer rude 
Chanted a rhj^me of deadly feud, 

"How the fierce Tliirwalls, and Rid- 
leys all, 
Stout Willimondswick, 
And Hardriding Dick, 
And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' 
the Wall, 
Have set on Sir Albany Featlierston- 

haugh, 
And taken iiis life at the Dead-man's- 
shaw." 
Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could 
brook 
The harper's barbarous lay, 
Yet inucli he praised the pains he took, 
And well tiiose pains did pay ; 
For lady's suit and minstrel's strain 
By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 

" Now good Lord Marmion," Herop says, 

" Of your fair courtes}'', 
I pray you bide some little space 

In this poor tower with me. 
Here may you keep your arms from rust. 

May breathe your war-horse well ; 
Seldom hath passed a week but joust 

Or feat of arms befell. 
The Scots can rein a mettled steed, 

Bnd love to couch a spear ; — 
Saint George ! a stirring life they lead 

That have such neighbors near ! 
Then stay with us a little space, 

Our Nortliern wars to learn ; 
I pray you for your lady's grace ! " 

Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 

The Captain marked his altered look, 

And gave the squire the sign ; 
A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 



And crowned it high with wine. 
" Now pledge me here. Lord Marmion ; 

But first I pray thee fair. 
Where hast thou left that page of thine 
That used to serve thy cujd of wine, 

Whose beauty was so rare ? 
When last in Raby -towers we met, 

The boy I closely eyed. 
And often marked his cheeks were wet 

With tears he fain would hide. 
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, 
To burnish shield or sharpen brand, 

Or saddle battle-steed, 
But meeter seemed for lady fair, 
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair. 
Or tlirough embroidery, rich and rare. 

The slender silk to lead ; 
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 

His bosom — when he sighed. 
The russet doublet's rugged fold 

Could scarce repel its pride ! 
Say, hast thou given tiiat lovely j^outh 

To serve in lady's bower ? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 

A gentle paramour ? " 

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest ; 

He rolled his kindling eye, 
Witli pain his rising wrath suppressed, 

Yet made a calm reply ; 
"Tliat boy tliou thought so goodly fair. 
Tie migiit not brook the Nortliern air. 
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
I left him sick in Lindisfarne. 
Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
Why does thy lovely lady gay 
Disdain to grace tlie hall to-day ? 
Or has that dame, so fair and sage, 
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? " — 
He spoke in covert scorn, feu* fame 
AVhispered light tales of Heron's dame. 

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt. 

Careless the knight replied : 
" No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt 

Delights in cage to bide ; 
Norliam is grim and grated close, 
Hemmed in by battlement and fosse, 

And many a darksome tower, 
And better loves my lady bright 
To sit in liberty and light 

In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
We iiold our greyhound in our hand. 

Our falcon on our glove, 
But where sliall we find leash or band 

For dame that loves to rove ? 
Let tlie wild falcon soar her swing. 
She '11 stoop when she has tried her 
wing." — 



SCOTT 



117 



'• Nay, if with Royal James's bride 

Tlie iovely Lady Heron bide, 

Beliold me liere a messenger. 

Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 

For, to the Scottish court addressed, 

I journey at our king's behest. 

And pray you. of your grace, provide 

For me and mine a trusty guide. 

I have not ridden in Scotland since 

James backed the cause of that mock 

prince, 
Warbeck, that Flemisli counterfeit, 
Who on tlie gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march witli Surrey's power. 
What time we razed old Ay ton tower.'' — 

" For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
Norhani can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some liave j^ricked as far 
On Scottish grounds as to Dunbar, 
Have drunk the monks of Saint 

Bethan's ale. 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale. 
Harried the wives of Greeidaw's goods, 
And given them light to set tl*eir 

hoods." 

" Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion 

cried, 
" Were I in warlike-wise to ride, 
A better guard I would not lack 
Than your stout forayers at my back ; 
But as in form of peace I go, 
A friendly messenger, to know. 
Why, through all Scotland, near and 

far. 
Their king is mustering troops for war. 
The sight of plundering Border spears 
Miglit justify suspicious fears, 
And deadly feud or thirst of spoil 
Break out in some unseemly broil. 
A herald were my fitting guide ; 
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
Or imrdoner, or travelling priest. 
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 

The Captain mused a little sjiace. 
And passed his hand across Ins face. — 
" Fain wovild I find the guide you want. 
But ill may spare a pursviivant, 
Tlie only men that safe can ride 
Mine errands on the Scottish side : 
And though a bishop built tins fort, 
Few holy brethren here resort ; 
Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 
Since our last siege we have not seen. 
The mass he miglit not sing or say 
Upon one stinted meal a daj^ ; 
So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 



And prayed for our success the while. 
Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 
Is all too well in case to ride ; 
The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 
The wildest war-horse in your train, 
But then no spearman in the hall 
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 
Friar John of Tillmoutli were the man ; 
A blithesome brother at the can, 
A welcome guest in hall and bower. 
He knows each castle, town, and tower. 
In which the wine and ale is good, 
'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 
But that good man, as ill befalls, 
Hath seldom left our castle walls. 
Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede, 
In evil hour lie crossed the Tweed, 
To teach Dame Alison her creed. 
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife. 
And John, an enemy to strife. 
Sans frock and liood, fled fen* his life. 
The jealous churl hath deeply sworn 
Tiiat, if again he venture o'er 
He shall slirieve penitent no more. 
Little he loves such risks, I know. 
Yet in your guard perchance will go!" 

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board. 
Carved to his uncle and that lord. 
And reverently took up the word : 
" Kind uncle, woe were we each one. 
If harm should hap to brother John. 
He is a man of mirthful speech. 
Can many a game and gambol teach ; 
Full well at tables can he play, 
And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
None can a lustier carol bawl. 
The needfullest among us all. 
When time hangs lieavy in the hall. 
And snow comes thick at Christmas 

tide, 
And we can neither hunt nor ride 
A foray on the Scottish side. 
The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude 
May end in worse than loss of hood, 
Let friar John in safety still 
In chimney corner snore his fill. 
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill ; 
Last night, to Norham there came one 
Will better guide Lord Marmion." — 
" Nepliew," (pioth Heron, " l)y my fay. 
Well hast thou spoke ; say forth thy 

say."-- 

" Here is a holy Palmer come, 

From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 

One that hath kissed the blessed tomb. 

And visited each holy shrine 

In Araby and Palestine ; 



ii8 



BRITISH POETS 



On hills of Armeuie hath been, 
Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; 
By that Red Sea, too, hatli he trod, 
Which parted at tlie Propliet's rod ; 
In Sinai's wilderness lie saw 
The Mount where Israel heard the law, 
Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin. 
And shadows, mists, and darkness, 

given. 
He shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 

And of that Grot where Olives nod, 
Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
From all the youth of Sicily, 

Saint Rosalie retired to God. 

" To stout Saint George of Norwich 

merry. 
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
Cutlibert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
For his sins' pardon hath he i)rayo(l. 
He knows the passes of the North. 
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ; 
Little he eats, and long will wake. 
And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
This'were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
But when our John hath quaffed his ale. 
As little as the wind that blows. 
And warms itself against his nose. 
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes." — 

" Gramercy ! " quoth Lord Marmion, 
" Full loath were I that Friar John, 
That venerable man, for me 
Were placed in fear or jeopardy : 
If this same Palmer will me lead 

From hence to Holy-Rood, 
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed. 
Instead of cockle-shell or bead, 

With angels fair and good. 
I love such holy ramblers ; still 
The}' know to charm a weary hill 

With song, romance, or lay : 
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest. 
Some lying legend, at the least. 

They bring to cheer the way." — 

" Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said. 

And finger on his lip he laid. 

'• This man knows much, perchance e'en 

more 
Than he could learn bj' holy lore. 
Still to himself he's muttering. 
And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
Last night we listened at his cell ; 
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to 

tell, 
He murmured on till morn, howe'er 
No living mortal could be near. 



Sometimes I thought I heard it plain, 
As other voices spoke again. 
I cannot tell — I like it not — 
Friar John hath told us it is wrote. 
No conscience clear and void of wrong 
Can rest awake and pray so long. 
Himself still sleeps before his beads 
Have marked ten aves and two 
creeds." — 

"Let pass," quoth Marmion; " bj' my 

fay. 
This man shall guide me on mj' way. 
Although the great arch-fiend and he 
Had sworn themselves of company. 
So please you, gentle youth, to call 
This Palmer to the castle-hall.'' 
The summoned Palmer came in place : 
His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; 
In his black mantle was he clad. 
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red. 

On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
The scallop shell his cap did deck ; 
The crucifix aroujid his neck 

Was from Loretto brought ; 
His sandals were with travel tore. 
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
Tlie faded palm-branch in his hand 
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land, 

When as the Palmer came in hall. 

Nor lord nor knight was there more tall. 

Or had a statelier step withal. 

Or looked more high and keen ; 
For no saluting did he wait. 
But strode across the hall of state. 
And fronted Marmion where he sate. 

As he liis peer had been. 
But his gaunt frame was worn with 

toil; 
His cheek was sunk, alas the Avhile ! 
And when he struggled at a smile 

His eye looked haggard wild : 
Poor wretch, the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there. 
In his wan face and sunburnt hair 

She had not known her child. 
Danger, long travel, want, or woe. 
Soon change the fornx that best we 

know — 
For deadly fear can time outgo. 

And blanch at once the hair ; 
Hard toil can roughen form and face. 
And want can quench the eye's brigliit 

grace. 
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 

More deeply than despair. 
Happy whom none of these befall. 
But this poor Palmer knew them all. 



SCOTT 



119 



Lord Maraiioii then liis boon did ask ; 
The Palmer took on him tlie task, 
So he would march witli morning tide, 
To Scottish court to be his guide. 
" But I have solemn vows to pay, 
And may not linger by the way. 

To fair Saint Andrew's bound. 
Within tlie ocean-cave to pray, 
Wliere good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
From midniglit to the dawn of day. 

Sung to the billows' sound ; 
Tlience to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 
Wliose spring can frenzied dreams dispel 

And tlie crazed brain restore. 
Saint Mary grant that cave or spring 
Could back to peace m}^ bosom bring. 

Or bid it throb no more ! " 

And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
Wliere wine and spices riclily steep, 
In massive bowl of silver deep, 

The page presents on knee. 
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
Tlie Captain pledged his noble guest. 
The cup went through among the rest. 

Who drained it merrily ; 
Alone the Palmer passed it by. 
Though Selby pressed him courteouslJ^ 
This was a sign the feast was o'er ; 
It hushed the merry wassail roar, 

The minstrels ceased to sound. 
Soon in the castle nought was heard 
But the slow footstep of the guard 

Pacing his sober round. 

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : 
And first the chapel doors unclose ; 
Then, after morning rites were done — 
A hasty mass from Friar Joim — 
And knight and squire had broke their 

fast 
On rich substantial repast, 
Lortl Marmion's bugle blew to horse. 
Then came the stirrup-cup in course : 
Between the baron and his host, 
No point of courtesy was lost ; 
High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 
Solemn excuse the Captain made. 
Till, filing from the gate, had passed 
That noble train, their lord the last. 
Tiien loudly rung the trumpet call ; 
Thundered the cannon from tlie wall, 

And shook the Scottish shore ; 
Around the castle eddied slow 
Volumes of smoke as white as snow 

And liid its turrets hoar. 
Till they rolled foi'th upon the air. 
And met the river breezes there. 
Which gave again the prospect fair. 



CANTO SECOND 



THE CONVENT 



The breeze which swept away the smoke 

Round Norhani Castle rolled. 
When all the loud' artillery spoke 
With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, 

As Marmion left the Hold. — 
It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze. 
For, far upon Northumbrian seas. 

It freshly blew and strong. 
Where, from high Whitby's cloistered 

pile. 
Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 

It bore a bark along. 
Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 

As she were dancing home ; 
The merry seamen laughed to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

Furrow the green sea-foam. 
Much joyed they in their honored 

freight ; 
For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. 
With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 

" T was sweet to see these holy maids. 
Like birds escaped to greenwood shades, 

Their first flight from the cage. 
How timid, and hovv curious too. 
For all to them was strange and new. 
And all the common sights they view 

Their wonderment engage. 
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 

With many a benedicite ; 
One at the rippling surge grew pale, 

And would for terror pray. 
Then shrieked because the sea-dog nigh 
His round black liead and sparkling eye 

Reared o'er the foaming spray ; 
And one would still adjust her veil 
Disordered by the summer gale. 
Perchance lest some more worldly e3'e 
Her dedicated charms miglit spy, 
Perchance because such action graced 
Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. 
Light was each simple bosom there, 
Save two, who ill might pleasure share,-^ 
The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 

The Abbess was of noble blood. 

But early took the veil and hood. 

Ere upon life she cast a look. 

Or knew the world that she forsook. 

Fair too she was. and kind had been 

As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 

For her a timid lover sigh, 

Nor knew the influence of her eye, 



BRITISH POETS 



Love to her ear was but a name, 
Combined witli vanity and shame ; 
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
Bounded within the cloister wall ; 
The deadliest sin her mind could reach 
Was of monastic rule the bi-each. 
And her ambition's liighest aim 
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
For this she gave her ample dower 
To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
Siie decked the chapel of the saint. 
And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
With ivory and gems embossed. 
The poor her convent's bounty blest. 
The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 

Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
Reformed on Benedictine school ; 
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; 
Vigils and penitence austere 
Had early quenched the light of youth : 
But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
Though, vain of her religious sway, 
She loved to see her maids obey. 
Yet nothing stern was she iii cell. 
And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
Sad was this voyage to the dame ; 
Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came. 
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old 
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
A chapter of Saint Benedict, 
For inquisition stern and strict 
On two apostates from the faith. 
And, if need were, to doom to death. 

Nought say I here of Sister Clare. 
Save this, that she was young and fair ; 
As yet a novice unprofessed. 
Lovely and gentle, but distressed. 
She was betrothed to one now dead, 
Or worse, w^ho had dishonored fled. 
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
To one who loved her for her land ; 
Herself, almost heart-broken now. 
Was bent to take the vestal vow. 
And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom 
Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. 

She sate upon the galley's prow. 
And seemed to mark the waves below ; 
Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye, 
To count them as they glided by : 
She saw them not — 't was seeming all — 
Far other scene her thoughts recall — . 
A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare ; 
Nor waves nor breezes murmured tliere ; 
There saw she where some careless li;ind 
O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand, 



To hide it till the jackals come 
To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 
See what a woful look was given. 
As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 

Lovely, and gentle, and distressed — 
These charms might tame the fiercest 

breast : 
Harpers have sung and poets told 
That he, in fury uncontrolled. 
The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
Before a virgin, fair and good, 
Hath pacified his savage mood. 
But passions in the human frame 
Oft put the lion's rage to shame ; 
And jealousy, by dark intrigue. 
With sordid avarice in league. 
Had practised with their bowl and knife 
Against the mourner's harmless life. 
This crime was charged gainst those 

who lay 
Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray. 

And now the vessel skirts the strand 
Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, 
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, 
And Tynemouth's priory and bay : 
They marked amid her trees the hall 
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; 
Thej' saw the Blythe and Wansbeck 

floods 
Rush to the sea through sounding 

woods ; 
They passed the tower of Widderington, 
Mother of many a valiant son ; 
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
To the good saint who owned the cell ; 
Then did the Alne Attention claim. 
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's 

name ; 
And next they crossed themselves to 

hear 
The whitening breakers sound so near. 
Where, boiling through the rocks, they 

roar 
On Dunstanborough's caverned shore ; 
Thy tower, proud Bamborough. marked 

they there. 
King Ida's castle, huge and square. 
From its tall rock look giimly down, 
And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
Then from the coast they bore away, 
■ And reached the Holy Island's bay. 

The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
And girdled in the Saint's domain ; 
For, with the flow and ebb, its style 



SCOTT 



Varies from continent to isle: 

Dry shod, o"er sands, twice every day 

The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; 

Twice every day the waves efface 

Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. 

As to the port the galley flew, 

Higher and higher rose to view 

The castle with its battled walls. 

The ancient monastei'y's halls. 

A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 

Placed on the margin of the isle. 

In Saxon strength that abbey frowned. 
With massive arches broad and round, 
That rose alternate, row and row, 
On ponderous columns, short and low, 

Built ere the art was known. 
By pointed aisle and shafted stalk 
The arcades of an alleyed walk 
To emulate in stone. 
On the deep walls the heathen Dane 
Had poured his impious rage in vain ; 
And needful was such strength to these, 
Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway. 
Open to rovers fierce as they. 
Which could twelve hundred year's with- 
stand 
Winds, waves, and northern pirates' 

hand . 
Not but that portions of the pile, 
Rebuilded in a later style. 
Showed where the spoiler's hand had 

been ; 
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
And mouldered in his niche the saint. 
And rounded wdth consuming power 
The pointed angles of each tower ; 
Yet still entire the abbey stood. 
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 

Soon as tliey neared his tvirrets strong. 
The maidens i-aised Saint Hilda's song. 
And with the sea-wave and the wind 
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined 

And made harmonious close ; 
Then, answering from the sandy shore. 
Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar. 

According chorus rose : 
Down to the haven of the Isle 
The monks and nuns in order file 

From Cuthbert's cloisteis grim : 
Banner, and cross, and relics there. 
To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bai e ; 
And, as they caught the sounds on air. 

They echoed back the hymn. 
Tlie islanders in joyous mood 
Rushed emulously through the flood 



To hale the bark to land : 
Conspicuous by her veil and hood. 
Signing tiie cross, the Abbess stood, 

And blessed them with her hand. 

Suppose we now the welcome said. 
Suppose the convent banquet made : 

All through the holy dome, 
Throvigh cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye. 

The stranger sisters roam ; 
Till fell the evening damp with dew. 
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew. 
For there even summer night is cliill. 
Then, having strayed and gazed their till, 

They closed around the fire ; 
And all, in turn, essayed to paint 
The rival merits of their saint, 

A theme that ne"er can tire 
A holy maid, for be it known 
That their saint's honor is their own. 

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told 
How to their house three barons bold 

Must menial service do. 
While horns blow out a note of shame. 
And monks cry, " Fie upon your name ! 
In wratli, for loss of sylvan game. 

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
"This, on Ascension-day, each year 
While laboring on our harbor-pier, 
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear." 
They told how in their convent-cell 
A Saxon princess once did dwell. 

The lovely Edelfied ; 
And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
Was changed into a coil of stone 

When holy Hilda prayed : 
Themselves, within their holy bound, 
Their stony folds had often found. 
They told how^ sea-fowls' pinions fail 
As over Whitby's towers they sail. 
And, sinking down, with flutterings 

faint, 
They do their homage to the saint. 

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail 

To vie with these in holy tale ; 

His body's resting-place, of old. 

How oft their patron changed, they told ; 

How, when the rude Dane burned tlieir 

pile. 
The luonks fled forth from Holy Isle : 
0"er northern mountain, marsh, and 

moor. 
From sea to sen. from shore to shore, 
Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 

bore. 



BRITISH POETS 



They rested them in fair Melrose ; 

But though, alive, he loved it well. 

Not there his I'elics might repose ; 
For, wondrous tale to tell ! 

In his stone coffin forth he rides, 

A ponderous bark for river tides, 

Yet light as gossamer it glides 

Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
Nor long was his abiding there, 
For soutliward did the saint repair ; 
Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw 
His holy corpse ere Wardilaw 

Hailed him with joy and fear : 
And, after many wanderings past, 
He chose his lordly seat at last 
"Wliere his cathedral, huge and vast, 

Looks down upon the Wear. 
There, deep in Durliam's Gothic shade. 
His relics ai'e in secret laid ; 

But none may know tlie place, 
Save of his holiest servants three, 
Deep sworn to solemn secrec}'. 

Who share that wondrous grace. 

Who may liis miracles declare? 
Even Scotland's dauntless king and 
heir — 

Altliough with them they led 
Galwegians. wild as ocean's gale. 
And Loden's kniglits, all slieathed in 

mail. 
And the bold men of Teviotdale — 

Before his standard fled. 
'Twas he, to vindicate liis reign. 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
And turned the Conqueror back again, 
Wlien, witli his Norman bowyer band. 
He came to waste Northumberland. 

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
If on a rock, b}' Lindisfarne, 
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
Tlie sea-born beads that bear liis name : 
Such tales had Whitby's fisliers told. 
And said they miglit liis shape behold. 

And hear liis anvil sound ; 
A deadened clang. — ^a huge dim form. 
Seen but. and heard, when gathering 
storm 

And night were closing round. 
But this, as tale of idle fame. 
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 

While round the fire such legends go, 
Far different was the scene of woe 
Where, in a secret aisle beneatli. 
Council was lield of life and death. 
It was more dark and long, tliat vault. 
Than the worst dungeon cell ; 



Old Colwulf built it. for his fault 

In penitence to dwell. 
When he for cowl and beads laid 
down 
The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
This den, which, chilling every sense 

Of feeling, hearing, sight. 
Was called the Vault of Penitence, 

Excluding air and liglit. 
Was by the prelate Sexlielm made 
A place of burial for such dead 
As, having died in mortal sin. 
Might not be laid the church within. 
'Twas now a place of punisliment ; 
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent 

As reached tlie upper air. 
The hearers blessed themselves, and said 
Tlie spirits of the sinful dead 
Bemoaned their torments there. 

But though, in the monastic pile, 
Did of tliis penitential pile, 
• Some vague tradition go. 
Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
Where the place lay, and still more few 
Were those who had from him the clew 

To that dread vault to go. 
Victim and executioner 
Were blindfold when transported there. 
In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung 
The gravestones, rudely sculptured o'er. 
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
Were all the pavement of the floor ; 
The mildew drops fell one by one. 
With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
A cresset, in an iron chain, 
Wliich served to light this di'ear domain. 
With damp and darkness seemed to 

strive. 
As if it scarce might keep alive ; 
And yet it dimly served to show 
The awful conclave met below. 

Thei'e, met to doom in secrecy. 
Were placed the heads of convents three, 
All servants of Saint Benedict, 
The statutes of whose order strict 

On iron table lay ; 
In long black dress, on seats of stone. 
Behind were these tliree judges shown 

By the pale crescent's ray. 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there 
Sat for a space with visage bare. 
Until, to hide her bosom's swell. 
And tear-drops that for pity fell, 

She closely drew her veil ; 
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess. 
By her proud mien and flowing dress. 



SCOTT 



123 



Is Tyneinouth's hauglity Prioress, 

And she with awe looks pale ; 
And he, that ancient man, whose sight 
Has long been quenched by age's night, 
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone 
Nor ruth nor mercy's trace is shown. 

Whose look is hard and stern. — 
Saint. Cuthbert's Abbot is his style. 
For sanctity called through the isle 
Tlie Saint of Lindisfarne. 

Before them stood a guilty pair ; 
But, though an equal fate tliey share, 
Yet one alone deserves our care. 
Her sex a page's dress belied ; 
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied. 
Obscured her cliarms, but could not 
hide. 

Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
And, on her doublet breast, 

She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
But. at tlie prioress' command. 
A monk undid the silken band 

Tliat tied her tresses fair. 
And raised the bonnet from her head, 
And down her slender form they spread 

In ringlets rich and rai'e. 
Constance de Beverley they know, 
Sister professed of Fontevraud, 
Whom the Church numbered with the 

dead, 
For broken vows and convent fled. 

When thus her face was given to 

view, — 
Although so pallid was her hue. 
It did a ghastly contrast bear 
To tiiose briglit ringlets glistering 

fair. — 
Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matddess constancy ; 
And there she stood so calm and pale 
That, but her breathing did not fail. 
And motion sliglit of eye and head. 
And of her bosom, warranted 
Tiiat neither sense nor pulse she lacks. 
You might have thought a form of wax, 
Wrought to the very life, was there ; 
So still she was, so pale, so fair. 

Her comrade was a sordid soul. 
Such as does murder for a meed ; 

Who, but of fear, knows no control. 

Because his conscience, seared and foul. 
Feels not the import of his deed ; 

One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 

Beyond his own more brute desires. 

Such tools the Tempter ever needs 



To do the savagest of deeds ; 

For them no visioned terrors daunt. 

Their nights no fancied spectres haunt ; 

One fear with them, of all most base. 

The fear of death, alone finds place. 

This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, 

And shamed not loud to moan and howl, 

His body on the floor to dash. 

And crouch, like hound beneath the 

lash ; 
While his mute partner, standing near. 
Waited her doom without a tear. 

Yet well the luckless wretch might 

shriek. 
Well might her paleness terror speak 1 
For there were seen in that dark wall 
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ; — 
Who enters at such grisly door 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
In each a slender meal was laid. 
Of roots, of water, and of bread ; 
By each, in Benedictine dress. 
Two haggard monks stood motionless, 
Who, holding high a blazing torch. 
Showed the grim entrance of the porch ; 
Reflecting back the smoky beam. 
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were dis- 
played , 
And building tools in order laid. 

These executioners were chose. 
As men who were with mankind foes, 
And, with despite and envy fired, 
Into the cloister had retired. 

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, 
Strove by deep penance to efl'ace 

Of some foul crime the stain ; 
For, as the vassals of her will, 
Sucli men the Church selected still 
As either joyed in doing ill. 
Or thought more grace to gain 
If in her cause they wrestled down 
Feelings their nature strove to own. 
By strange device were they brought 

there. 
They knew not how, and knew not 
whei'e. 

And now that blind old abbot rose, 
To speak the Chapter's doom 

On those the wall was to enclose 
Alive within the tomb. 

But stopped because that woful maid, 

Gathering her povv-ers. to speak essayed ; 

Twice she essayed, and twice in vain. 

Her accents might no \itterance gain ; 

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 



124 



BRITISH POETS 



From her convulsed and quivering lip ; 
'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
You seemed to hear a distant lill — 
'T was ocean's swells and falls ; 
For though this vault of sin and fear 
Was to tlie sounding surge so near, 
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
So massive were the walls. 

At length, an effort sent apart 
The blood that curdled to her heart, 

And light came to her eye, 
And color dawned upon her cheek, 
A hectic and a fluttered streak, 
Like that left on the Cheviot peak 

By Autvnnn's stormy sky ; 
And when her silence broke at length. 
Still as she spoke she gathered strength. 

And armed herself to bear. 
It was a fearful sight to see 
Such high resolve and constancy 

In form so soft and fair. 

" I speak not to implore your grace, 
Well know I for one minute's space 

Successless might I sue : 
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; 
For if a death of lingering pain 
To cleanse my sins be penance vain. 

Vain are your masses too. — 
I listened to a traitor's tale, 
I left the convent and the veil ; 
For three long years I bowed my pride, 
A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
7\nd well my folly's meed he gave. 
Who forfeited, to be his slave, 
All here, and all beyond the grave, 
lie saw young Clara's face more fair, 
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. 
And Constance was beloved no more. 

'T is an old tale, and often told ; 
But did my fate and wish agree. 

Ne'er had been read, in story old. 

Of maiden true betrayed for gold. 
That loved, or was avenged, like me ! 

" Tlie king approved his favorite's aim ; 
In vain a rival barred his claim. 

Whose fate with Clare's was plight. 
For he attaints that rival's fame 
With treason's charge — and on tiiey came 
In mortal lists to figiit. 
Their oaths are said. 
Their prayers are prayed. 
Their lances in the rest are laid. 
They meet in mortal shock ; 
And hark ! the throng, with thundering 



Shout ' Marmion. Marmion ! to the skj', 

De Wilton to the block ! ' 
Say, ye who preach Heaven shall decide 
When in the lists two champions ride. 

Say, was Heaven's justice here? 
When, loyal in his love and faith, 
Wilton found overthrow or death 

Beneath a traitor's spear? 
How false the charge, how true he fell. 
Tins guilty packet best can tell.'' 
Then drew a packet from her breast. 
Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the 
rest. 

"Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed ; 
To Whitby's convent fied the maid. 

The hated match to shun. 
•Ho! shifts she thus?' King Henry 

cried. 
' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride. 

If she were sworn a nun.' 
One Avay remained — the king's command 
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land ; 
I lingered here, and rescue planned 

For Clara and for me : • 
Tliis caitiff monk for gold did swear 
He would to Whitby's shrine repair, 
And by his drugs m^y rival fair 

A saint in heaven should be ; 
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
Whose cowardice hath undone us both. 

" And now my tongue the secret tells, 
Not that remorse mj' bosom swells. 
But to assure mj'^ soul that none 
Sliall ever wed with Marmion. 
Had fortune my last hope lietrayed, 
This packet, to the king conveyed. 
Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
Although my heart that instant broke. — 
Now, men of death, work forth your 

will. 
For I can suffer, and be still ; 
And come he slow, or come he fast, 
It is but Death who comes at last, 

" Yet dread me from my living tomb. 

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 

If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 

Full soon such vengeance will he take 

That you sliall wish the fiery Dane 

Had rather been your guest again. 

Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 

The altars quake, the crosier bends, 

The ire of a desjiotic king 

Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 

Then sliall these vaults^, so strong and 

deep. 
Burst open to tlie sea-wind's sweep ; 



4 



SCOTT 



Some traveller tlien shall find my bones 
Whitening amid disjointed stones, 
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
Marvel such relics liere should be." 

Fixed was her look and stern her air : 
Back from her shoulders streamed her 

hair ; 
The locks that wont lier brow to shade 
Stared up erectly from her liead ; 
Her figure seemed to rise; more high ; 
Her voice despair's wild energy 
Had given a tone of prophecy. 
Appalled the astonislied conclave sate ; 
With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
Gazed on the light inspired form, 
And listened for tlie avenging storm ; 
The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
No hand was moved, no word was said, 

Till thus the abbot's doom was given, 
Raising his sightless balls to heaven : 
" Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
Sinful brother, part in peace ! " 

From that dire dungeon, place of doom. 

Of execution too, and tomb. 
Paced forth the judges three ; 

Sorrow it were and shame to tell 

Tiie butcher-work that there befell. 

When they had glided from the coll 
Of sin and miser}". 

An hundred wiiuling steps convey 
That conclave to the upper day ; 
But ere they breathed the fresher air 
They heard tlie shriekings of despair. 

And many a stilled groan. 
With speed their upward way they 

take, — 
Such speed as age and fear can make. — 
And crossed themselves for terror's .sake, 

As hurrying, tottering on. 
Even in the vesjier's heavenly tone 
They seemed to hear a dying groan. 
And bade the passing knell to toll 
For welfare of a parting soul. 
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
Northumbrinn rocks in answer rung ; 
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled. 
His beads the wakeful hermit told ; 
The Bamborough peasant raised liis 

head. 
But slept ere half a pi'ayer he said ; 
So far was heard the might}" knell. 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostrils to the wind, 
Listed before, aside, behind, 
Then couched him down beside the hind. 
And quaked among the mountain fern, 
To hear that sound so dull and stern. 



CANTO THIRD 

THE HOSTEL, OR INN 

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode ; 
The mountain path the Palmer showed 
By glen and streamlet winded still, 
Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
They might not choose the lowland road, 
For the Mer.se forayers were abroad, 
Who, fired with hate and thinst of prey. 
Had scarcely failed to bar their way ; " 
Oft on the trampling band from crown 
Of some tall clitf the deer looked down ; 
On wing of jet from his repose 
In the deep heath the blackcock rose ; 
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
And when the stony path began 
By which the naked peak they wan, 
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 
The noon had long been passed before 
They gained the height of Lanimer- 

moor ; 
Thence winding down the northern 

way, 
Before them at the close of day 
Old Gilford's towers and hamlet lay. 

No summons calls them to the tower, 

To spend the hospitable hour. 

To Scotland's camji the lord was gone ; 

His cautious dame, in bower alone, 

Dreaded her castle to unclose. 

So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
On through the hamlet astliey paced. 
Before a porch whose front was graced. 
With bush and flagon trimly placed. 

Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
The village inn seemed large, though 

rude ; 
Its cheerful fire and hearty food 
Might well relieve his train. 

Down from their seats the horsemen 
sprung, 

AVith jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 

They bind their horses to the stall. 

For forage, food, and firing call. 

And various clamor fills the hall : 

Weighing the labor with the cost. 

Toils everywhere the bustling host. 

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze. 
Through the rude hostel might you gaze, 
Might see where in dark nook aloof 
The rafters of the sooty roof 

Bore wealth of winter cheer ; 
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, 
And gammons of the tusky boar. 

And savory haunch of deer. 



126 



BRITISH POETS 



The chimney arch projected wide ; 
Above, around it, and beside. 

Were tools for housewives' hand ; 
Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
The imijlements of Scottisli fray, 

The buckler, lance, and brand. 
Beneath its siiade, the place of state. 
On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
And viewed around tlie bhizing hearth 
His followers mix in noisy niirtli : 
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
From ancient vessels ranged Hside 
Full actively their host supplied. 

Theirs was the glee of martial breast. 
And laughter theirs at little jest ; 
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid. 
And mingle in the mirth they made ; 
For though, with men of high degree, 
Tlie proudest of the proud was lie. 
Yet, trained in camps, he kuew the 

art 
To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
They love a captain to obe}'. 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May ; 
With open hand and brow as free, 
Lover of wine and minstrelsy ; 
Ever the first to scale a tower. 
As venturous in a lady's bow er : — ■ 
Sucli buxom cliief shnil lead his host 
From Intlia's fires to Zembla"s frost. 

Resting upon his pilgrim staff. 

Right o|)posite tlie Palmer stood. 
His tliin dark visage seen but half, 

Half hidden by liis hood. 
Still fixed on Marmion was his look, 
Which he, who ill such gaze could 
brook. 

Strove by a frown to quell ; 
But not for that, though more than once 
Full met their stern encountering glance, 

The Palmer's visage fell. 

By fits less frequent fi-om the crowd 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; 
For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard, 

Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke save when in comrade's ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 

Thus whispered forth his mind : 
"Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er sucli 

sight ? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright 
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light. 

Glances beneatli his cowl ! 
Full on our lord he sets his eye ; 



For his best palfrej^ would not I 
Endure that sullen scowl. " 

But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
Which thus had quelled their hearts 

who saw 
The ever-varying firelight show 
Tiiat figux-e stern ami face of woe, 

Now called upon a sqiiiie ; 
'• Fitz-Eustace, know'.st tliou not some 

lay. 
To speed the lingering night away'? 

We slumber by the fire.'' 

" So please 3"ou," thus the youth rejoined, 
"Our choicest-minsti-el's left behind. 
Ill niaywe hope to please your ear. 
Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. 
The harp full deftly can he strike. 
Anil wake the lover's lute alike ; 
To dear Saint Valentine lio thrush 
Sings livelier from a springtide bush, 
No nightingale her lovelorn tune 
More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
Woe to the cause, whate'erit be. 
Detains from us his melodj^ 
Lavished on rocks and billows stern. 
Or didler monks of Lindisfarne, 
Now must I ventin-e as I may. 
To sing his favorite roundelay. " 

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had. 
The air he chose was wild and sad ; 
Such have I heard in Scottisli land 
Rise from the busy, harvest band. 
When falls before the mountaineer 
On Lowland plains the ripened ear. 
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 
Now a wild chorus swells the song ; 
Oft have I listened and stood still 
As it came softened up the hill, 
And deemed it the lament of men 
Who langinshed for their native glen. 
And thought how sad would be such 

sound 
On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, 
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake. 
Where heart-sick exiles in the strain 
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again ! 

SONG 
Where shall the lover rest. 

Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast. 

Parted forever ? 
Where, through groves deep and high, 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where earlv violets die, 

Under the willow. 



SCOTT 



127 



CHORUS 

Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day, 

Cool streams are laving ; 
There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving; 
Tliere thy rest shalt thou take, 

Parted forever, 
Never again to wake, 

Never, O never ! 

CHORUS 

Eleu loro, etc. Never, O never 1 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He the deceiver, 
Wlio could win maiden's breast. 

Ruin and leave her? 
In the lost battle. 

Borne down by the flying. 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the djang. 

CHORUS 

Eleu l^ro, etc. There shall he be 15'ing. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap. 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever ; 
Blessing shall hallow it, — 

Never, O never ! 

CHORUS 

Eleu loro, etc. Never, O never ! 

It ceased, the melancholy sound. 
And silence sunk on all around. 
Tlie air was sad ; but sadder still 

It fell on Marniion's ear. 
And plained as if disgrace and ill. 

And sliameful deatli, were near. 
He drew his mantle past his face. 

Between it and the band. 
And rested with his head a space 

Reclining on his hand. 
His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween 
That, could their import have been 

seen. 
The meanest groom in all the hall, 
Tliat e'er tied courser to a stall, 
Wonld scarce have wished to be their 

l)rev. 
For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 



High minds, of native pride and force, 
Most deeply feel thy pangs. Remorse ! 
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains 

have, 
Tliou art the torturer of the brave ! 
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they 

feel. 
Even while they writhe beneath the 

smart 
Of civil conflict in the heart. 
For soon Lord Marmion raised liis head, 
And smiling to Fitz-Eustace said : 
" Is it not strange that, as ye sung, 
Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
Such as in nunneries they toll 
For some departing sister's soul ! 
Say, what may this portend ? ' 
Then first the Palmer silence broke, — 
The livelong day he had not spoke, — 
■' The death of a dear friend." 

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
Ne'er changed in worst extremit}^ ; 
Marmion, whose soul could scantly 

brook 
Even from his king a haughtj^ look ; 
Whose accent of command controlled 
In camps the boldest of the bold — 
Thought, look, and uttei'ance failed him 

now. 
Fallen was his glance and flushed his 
brow : 

For either in the tone. 
Or something in the Palmer's look, 
So full upon his conscience strook. 

That answer he found none. 
Thus oft it haps that when within 
They shrink at sense of secret sin, 

A feather daunts the brave ; 
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
And proudest princes veil their eyes 

Before their meanest slave. 

Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
Was Constance Beverley betrayed. 
Not that he augured of the doom 
Which on the living closed the tomb : 
But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid. 
And wroth because in wild despair 
She practised on the life of Clare, 
Its fugitive the Church he gave. 
Though not a victim, but a slave. 
And deemed restraint in convent 

strange 
Would hide her wrongs and her revenge. 
Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer, 
Held KoMiish thunders idle fear ; 



128 



BRITISH POETS 



Secufe his pardon he might hold 
For some sliglit mulct of penance-gold. 
Tlius judging, he gave secret way 
VViieu the stern priests surprised their 

prey. 
His train but deemed the favorite page 
Was left beliind to spare his age ; 
Or otlier if tliey deemed, none dared 
To mutter wliat lie thought and heard : 
Woe to tiie vassal wlio durst pry 
Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 

His conscience slept — he deemed her 

well, 
And safe secured in distant cell ; 
But wakened by her favorite lay, 
And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
Tl:at fell so ominous and drear 
Full on tlie object of liis fear, 
To aid remorse's venomed throes. 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; 
And Constance, late betrayed and 

scorned, 
All lovely on liis soul returned ; 
Lovely as when at treacherous call 
She left lier convent's peaceful wall. 
Crimsoned with shame, with terror 

mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
Till love, victorious o'er alarms, 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 

'• Alas ! " he thouglit, " how changed that 

mien ! 
How changed these timid looks have 

been, 
Since years of guilt and of disguise 
Have steeled her br«vv and armed lier 

eyes ! 
No more of virgin terror speaks 
Tlie blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
Fierce and unfeminine are tliere, 
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ; 
And I the cause — for whom were given 
Her peace on earth, her hopes in 

heaven ! — • 
Would," thought he, as the picture 

grows, 
" I on its stalk had left the rose ! 
Oh, wliy should man's success remove 
The very charms that wake liis love ? — 
Her convent's peaceful solitude 
Is now a prison harsh and rude ; 
And, pent witliin the narrow cell, 
How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
The penance how — and I the cause ! — 
Vigil and scourge — perchance even 

worse ! 



And twice he rose to cry, '' To hor.se !"' 
And twice his .sovereign's mandate came, 
Like damji upon a kindling flame ; 
And twice he thought, "Gave I not 

charge ? 
She should be safe, thougli not at 

large ? 
Tliej^ durst not, for tlieir island, shred 
One golden ringlet from her head." 

While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 

Repentance and reviving love, 

Like whirlwinds who.se contending sway 

I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, 

Their host the Palmer's speech had 

heard. 
And talkative took up the word : 

'■ Ay, reverend pilgrim, you who stray 
From Scotland's simple land away. 

To visit realms afar. 
Full often learn tlie art to know 
Of future weal or future woe. 
By word,, or sign, or star ; 
Yet might a knight his fortvine hear, 
If, Knight-like, he despises fear, 
Not far from hence ; — if fatliers old 
Alight our hamlet legend told." 
These broken words the menials niove, — 
For marvels still the vulgar k)ve, — 
And. Marmion giving license cold, 
His tale the host thus gladh' told : — 

THE host's tale 

"A clerk could tell what years have 

flown 
Since Alexander filled our throne, — 
Third monarch of that warlike name, — 
And eke the time when here he came 
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord : 
A braver never drew a sword ; 
A wiser never, at the hour 
Of midnight, spoke the word of power ; 
The same whom ancient records call 
The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 
I would. Sir Knight, your longer stay 
Gave you that cavern to survey. 
Of lofty roof and ample size, 
Beneath the castle deep it lies : 
To hew the living rock profound. 
The floor to pave, the arch to round. 
There never toiled a mortal arm. 
It all was wrought by word and charm ; 
And I have heard mj^ grandsiie say 
That the wild clamor and affray 
Of those dread artisans of hell. 
Who labored under Hugo's spell, 
Sounded as loud as ocean's war 
Among the caverns of Dunbar. 



SCOTT 



129 



"The king Lord Gifford's castle sought. 
Deep laboring with uncertain thouglit. 
Even then lie mustered all his host, 
To meet upon the western coast ; 
For Norse and Danisli galleys plied 
Their oars within the Firth of Clyde. 
There floated Haco's banner trim 
Above Norweyan warriors grim. 
Savage of heart and large of limb. 
Threatening both continent and isle, 
Bute, Arran, Cvmninghame, and Kyle. 
Lord Gifford, deep beneatli the ground, 
Heard Alexander's bugle sound. 
And tarried not his garb to change, 
But, in his wizard habit strange. 
Came forth, — a quaint and fearful sight : 
His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 
His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
A pointed cap, such as of yore 
Clerks say that Pliaraoh's Magi wore ; 
His shoes were marked with cross and 

spell, 
Upon his breast a pentacle : 
His zone of margin parchment thin. 
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin. 
Bore many a planetary sign. 
Combust, and retrogade. and trine ; 
And in his hand he held prepared 
A naked sword without a guard. 

" Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
Had marked strange lines upon liisface ; 
Vigil and fast had worn him grim. 
His e3'esight dazzled seemed and dim, 
As one unused to upper day ; 
Even his own menials with dismay 
Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire 
In tills unwonted wild attire ; 
Unwonted, for traditions run 
He seldom thus beheld the sun. 
• I know,' he said, — his voice was hoarse 
And broken seemed its hollow force, — ■ 
' I know the cause, although untold. 
Why the king seeks his vassal's liold : 
Vainly from me my liege would know 
His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
His courage may do more than art. 

'• ■ Of middle air the demons proud, 
Who ride upon the I'acking cloud, 
Can read in fixed or wandering star 
The issue of events afar, 
But still their sullen aid withhold. 
Save when by miglitier foi'ce controlled. 
Such late I summoned to my hall ; 
And though so potent was the call 
That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
I deemed a refuge from tlie spell, 

9 



Yet, obstinate in silence still. 
The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
But thou, — who little know"st thy might 
As born upon that blessed night 
When yawning graves and dying groan 
Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, — 
With untaught valor shalt compel 
Response denied to magic spell.' 
' Gramercy,' quoth our monarch free, 
' Place him but front to front witii me, 
And, by this good and lionored brand, 
The gift of Ca3ur-de-Lion's hand. 
Soothly I swear that, tide what tide. 
The demon shall a buffet bide.' 
His bearing 'oold the wizard viewed, 
And thus, well pleased, his speech re- 
newed : 
' There spoke the blood of Malcolm! — 

mark : 
Forth pacing hence at midnight dark. 
The rampart seek whose circling crown 
Crests the ascent of yonder down : 
A southern entrance slialt thou find ; 
Thei'e halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
And trust thine elfin foe to see 
In guise of thy worst enemy. 
Couch then thy lance and spur thy 

steed — 
Upon him ! and Saint George to speed ! 
If he go down, thou soon shalt know 
Whate'er these airy sjirites can show ; 
If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
I am no warrant for thy life.' 

" Soon as the midnight bell did ring. 
Alone and armed, forth rode the king 
To that old camp's deserted round. 
Sir Knight, you well might mark the 

mound 
Left hand the town, — the Pictish race 
The trench, long since, in blood did 

trace ; 
The moor around is brown and bai'e. 
The space within is green and fair. 
The spot our village children know. 
For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ; 
But woe betide the wandering wight 
That treads its circle in the night ! 
The bi'eadth across, a bowshot clear. 
Gives ample space for full career ; 
Opposed to the four points of heaven. 
By four deep gaps axe entrance given. 
The southernmost our monarch passed, 
Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
And on the north, within the ring. 
Appeared the form of England's king, 
Wlio then, a thousand leagues afar, 
In Palestine waged holy war : 
Yet arms like England's did he wield ; 



130 



BRITISH POETS 



Alike the leopards in the shield, 
Alike his Syrian courser's frame, 
The rider's length of limb tlie same. 
Long afterwards did Scotland know 
Fell Edward was her deadliest foe. 

" The vision made our monarch start, 
But soon he manned his noble heart, 
And in the first career they ran , 
Tlie Elfin Kiiiglit fell, horse and man ; 
Yet did a splinter of his lance 
Through Alexander's visor glance. 
And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
Tlie king, light leaping to the ground, 
With naked blade his phantom foe 
Compelled the future war to show. 
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
Where still gigantic bones remain. 

Memorial of the Danish war ; 
Himself he saw, amid the field, 
On high his brandished war-axe wield 
And strike proud Haco from his car, 
While all around the shadowy kings 
Denmark's grim ravens cowered their 

wings. 
' T is said that in that awful night 
Remoter visions met his sight, 
Foi'eshowing future conquest far, 
When our sons' sons wage Northern 

war ; 
A royal city, tower and spire, 
Reddened tlie midnight sky with fire, 
And sliouting crews her navy bore 
Triumphant to the victor shore. 
Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
They pass the wit of simple swain. 

" The joyful king turned home again. 
Headed his host, and quelled the Dane ; 
But yearly, when returned the night 
Of his strange combat with the sprite, 

His wound must bleed and smart ; 
Lord Giff'ord then would gibing siiy, 
' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 

The penance of your start.' 
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave. 
King Alexander fills his grave, 

Our Lady give him rest ! 
Yet still the kniglitly spear and shield 
The Elfin Warrior doth wield 

Upon the brown hill's breast. 
And many a knight hath proved his 

chance 
In the charmed ring to break a lance. 

But all have foully sped ; 
Save two. as legends tell, and they 
Were Wallace wight and Gilbert 
Hay.- 

Gentles, my tale is said." 



The quaighs were deep, the liquor 

strong. 
And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
Had made a comment sage and long. 

But Marmion gave a sign. 
And with their lord the squires retire. 
The rest around the ho.stel fire 

Their drowsj' limbs recline ; 
For ]3illow. underneath each head 
The qniver and the targe were laid. 
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor. 
Oppressed with toil and ale. they snore ; 
The dying flame, in fitful change. 
Threw on the group its shadows strange. 

Apart, and nestling in the hay 
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ; 
Scarce by the pale moonlight were seen 
The foldings of his mantle green : 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream. 
Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
Of hawk or hound, or ring or glove, 
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 
A cautious tread his slumber broke. 
And, close beside him when he woke. 
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom. 
Stood a tall form with nodding plume ; 
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
His master Marmion's voice he knew : 

" Fitz-Eustace ! rise, — I cannot rest ; 
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my 

breast. 
And graver thoughts have chafed my 

mood ; 
The air must cool my feverish blood. 
And fain would I ride forth to see 
The scene of elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed ; 
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy 

slaves ; 
I would not that the prating knaves 
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
That I could credit such a tale." 
Then softly down the steps they slid, 
Eustace the stable door undid. 
And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed. 
While, whispering, thus the baron 

said : — 

" Didst never, good my j^outh, hear tell 
Tliat on the hour when I was born 

Saint George, who graced my sire's cha- 
pelle, 

Down from his steed of marble fell, 
A weary wight forlorn ? 

The flattering chaplains all agree 

The champion left his steed to me. 



SCOTT 



131 



I would, the omen's truth to show, 
That I could meet this elfin foe ! 
Blithe would I battle for tlie right 
To ask one question at the sprite. — 
Vain tliought ! for elves, if elves there 

be. 
An empty race, by fount or sea 
To dashing- waters dance and sing, 
Or rovmd the green oak wheel their 

ring." 
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
And from the hostel slowly rode. 

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad. 
And marked him pace the village road. 

And listened to his iiorse's tramp, 
Till, by the lessening sound. 

He judged that of the Pictish camp 
Lord Marmion sought the round. 
Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, 
That one, so wary held and wise. — 
Of whom 'twas .said, he scarce received 
For gospel what the Church believed, — 

Should, stirred by idle tale. 
Ride forth in silence of the night, 
As hoping lialf to meet a sprite. 

Arrayed in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know 
That passions in contending flow 

Unfix the strongest mind ; 
Wearied from doubt to doul)t to flee, 
We welcome fond credulity. 

Guide confident, tliough blind. 

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared. 
But patient waited till he heard 
At distance, pricked to utmost speed. 
The foot-tramp of a flying steed 

Come townward rushing on ; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
Then, clattering on tiie village road, — 
In other pace tlum forth he yode. 

Returned Lord Marmion, 
Down hastily he sjjrung from selle. 
And in his haste wellnigli he fell; 
To the squire's hand the rein he threw. 
And spoke no word as he witlulrew : 
But yet the moonlight did betray 
Tlie falcon-crest was soiled with clay ; 
And plainly might Fitz Eustace see, 
By stains upon the charger's knee 
And his left side, that on the moor 
He had not kept his footing sure. 
Long musing on these wondrous signs. 
At length to rest tlie squire reclines. 
Broken and short ; for still between 
Would dreams of terror intervene : 
Eustace did ne'er so blitliely mark 
The first notes of the morning kuk. 



CANTO FOURTH 



THE CAMP 



Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, tiie cock he crew. 
And loudlj- Marmion's bugles blew. 
And with their light and lively call 
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
Wliistling they came and free of heart, 
But soon their mood was changed ; 
Complaint was heard on every part 
Of some thing disarranged. 
Some clamored loud for armor lost ; 
Some brawled and wrangled svith the 

host ; 
' By Becket's bones,' cried one, ' I fear 
That some false Scot has stolen my 

spear ! ' 
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 

squire. 
Found liis steed wet with sweat and mire, 
Although the rated horse-boy sware 
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
While cliafed the impatient squire like 

thunder. 
Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, — • 
Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! 
Bevis lies dying in his stall ; 
To Marmion who the plight dare tell 
Of the good steed he loves so well ? ' 
(raping for fear and ruth, they saw 
Tlie cliarger panting on his straw ; 
Till one, wiio would seem wisest, cried, 
" What else but evil could betide. 
With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
Better we had througli mire and bush 
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." 

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but 
guessed. 

Nor wholly understood. 
His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
pressed : 

He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought. 
And found deep plunged in gloomj' 
thought. 

And did his tale display 
Simply, as if he knew of nought 

To cause such disarray. 
Lord Marmion gave attention cold. 
Nor marvelled at the wonders told, — 
Passed them as accidents of course. 
And bade his clarions .sound to horse. 

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the 

cost 
Had reckoned with tlieir Scottish host : 



132 



BRITISH POETS 



And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
" 111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said ; 
"Dost see, thou knave, nij- horse's plight? 
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 

And left him in a foam ! 
I trust that soon a conjui'iiig band, 
With English cross and blazing brand. 
Shall drive the devils from this land 

To their infernal home ; 
For in this haunted den, I trow. 
All night they trampled to antl fro." 
The laughing host looked on tiie hire : 
" Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 
And if thou com'st among the rest. 
With Scottish broadsword to be blest. 
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
And short the pang to undergo." 
Here stayed their talk, for Marmion 
Gave now the signal to set on. 
The Palmer showing forth the way, 
They journeyed all the morning-day. 

The greensward way was smooth and 

good, 
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 

wood ; 
A forest glade, which, varying still. 
Here gave a view of dale and hill 
There narrower closed till overhead 
A vaulted screen the branches made. 
" A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said ; 
"Such as where errant knights miglit 

see 
Adventures of high chivalry. 
Might meet some damsel fl\'ing fast. 
With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
And smooth and level course were here, 
In her defence to break a spear. 
Here, too. are twilight nooks and dells ; 
And oft in such, the story tells. 
The damsel kind, from danger freed. 
Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind. 
Perchance to show his lore designed ; 

For Eustace much had pored 
Upon a huge romantic tome, 
In the hall-window of his home, 
Imprinted at the antique dome 

Of Caxton or de Worde, 
Tiierefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, 
For Marmion answered nought again. 

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill. 
In notes prolonged by wood and hill, 

Were heard to echo far ; 
Each ready archer grasped his bow, 
But by the flourish soon they know 

They breathed no point of war. 
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 



Lord Marmion's order .speeds the band 

Some opener ground to gain ; 
And scarce a furlong had tiiey rode. 
When thinner trees receding showed 

A little woodland plain. 
Just in that advantageous glade 
The halting troop a line had made. 
As forth from the opposing siiade 
Issued a gallant train. 

First came the trumpets, at whose clang 
So late the forest echoes rang ; 
On prancing steeds they forward pressed, 
With scarlet mantle, azure vest ; 
Each at his trump a banner wore, 
Which ScotlaiuVs royal .scutcheon bore : 
Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, 

came, 
In painted tabards, proudly showing 
Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing. 

Attendant on a king-at-arms. 
Whose hand the armorial truncheon 

held 
That feudal strife had often quelled 

When wildest its alarms. 

He was a man of middle age. 

In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 

As on king's errand come ; 
But in the glances of his eye 
A penetrating, keen, and sly 

Expression found its home ; 
The flash of that satiric rage 
Which, bursting on the early stage, 
Branded the vices of the age. 

And broke the keys of Rome. 
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
His cap of maintenance was graced 

With the proud heron-plume. 
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and 
breast, 

Silk housings swept the ground. 
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest. 

Embroidered round and round. 
The double tressure might you see, 

First by Achaius borne, 
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 

And gallant unicorn. 
So bright the king's armorial coat 
That scarce the dazzled eye could note. 
In living colors blazoned brave. 
The Lion, which his title ga.ve ; 
A train, which well beseemed his state, 
But all unarmed, around him wait. 

Still is thy name in high account, 
And still thy verse has charms, 

Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
Lord Lion King-at-arms ! 



SCOTT 



133 



Down from his liorse did Marinion spring 

Soon as he saw the Lion-King ; 

For well the stately baron knew 

To him such courtesy was due 

Whom royal James himself liad crowned, 

And on his temples placed tiie round 

Of Scotland's ancient diadem. 
And wet his brow with hallowed wine, 
And on his finger given to shine 

The emblematic gem. 
Their mutual greetings duly made, 
Tlie Lion thus his message said : — 
' Though Scotland's King hath deeply 

swore 
Ne'er to knit faith witli Henry more. 
And strictly hath forbid resort 
From England to his royal court. 
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name 
And honors much his warlike fame, 
My liege hath deemed it shame and 

lack 
Of courtesy to turn him back ; 
And by liis order I, your guide. 
Must lodging fit and fair provide 
Till finds King James meet time to see 
Tlie flower of English chivalry." 

Though inly chafed at this delay. 
Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 
Tlie Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
Beholding thus his place supplied, 

Sought to take leave in vain ; 
Strict was the Lion-King's command 
That none wlio rode in Marmion's band 

Should sever from the train. 
" England has here enow of spies 
In Lady Heron's witcliing eyes : " 
To Marchmount thus apart he said. 
But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
Tlie right-hand path they now decline. 
And trace against the stream the Tyiie. 

At length up that wild dale they wind. 

Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the 
bank ; 
For there the Lion's care assigned 

A lodging meet for IMarmion's rank. 
Tliat castle rises on the steep 

Of the green vale of Tyne ; 
And far beneath, where slow they creep 
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 
WJiere alders moist and willows weep, 

You hear her streams repine. 
The towei's in difi'erent ages rose. 
Their various architecture shows 

The builders' various hands ; 
A mighty mass, that could oppose. 
When deadliest hatred fivod its foes, 

The vengeful Douglas bands. 



Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 

But pens the lazy steer and sheep. 

Thy turrets rude and tottered keep 
Have been the minstrers loved resort. 
Oft have I traced, within thy fort. 

Of mouldering shields the mystic 
sense. 

Scutcheons of honor or pretence, 
Quartered in old armorial sort. 

Remains of rude magnificeTice. 
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced 

Thy lordl}^ galleiy fair. 
Nor yet tlie stony cord unbraced 
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, 

Adorn thy ruined stair. 
Still rises vmimpaired below 
The court-yard's graceful portico ; 
Above its cornice, row and row 
Of fair-hewn facets richly show 

Their pointed diamond form. 
Though there but houseless cattle go. 

To shield them from the storm. 
And. shuddering, still may we explore, 

Where oft whilom were captives pent. 
The darkness of thy Massy More. 

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement. 
May trace in undulating line 
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 

Another aspect Crichtoun showed 
As through its portal Marmion rode ; 
But yet 't was melancholy state 
Received him at the outer gate, 
For none were in the castle then 
But women, boys, or aged men. 
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing 

dame 
To welcome noble Marmion came ; 
Her son. a stripling twelve years old, 
Proffered the baron's rein to hold : 
For each man that could draw a sword 
Had inarched that morning with their 

lord, 
Earl Adam Hepburn, — he who died 
On Flodden by his sovereign's side. 
Long may his lady look in vain ! 
She ne'er shall see his gallant train 
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 

Dean . 
'T was a brave race before the name 
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. 

And here two days did Marmion rest. 
With every right that honor claims, 

Attended as the king's own guest ; — 
Such the command of Royal James, 

Who marshalled then his land's array, 

Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 

Perchance he would not foeman's eye 



134 



BRITISH POETS 



Upon his gathering host should pry, 
Till full prepared was every band 
To march against the Englisli land. 
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's 

wit 
Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit ; 
And, in his turn, lie knew to prize 
Lord Marmion's powerful mind and 

wise, — 
Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
And policies of war and ijeace. 

It chanced, as fell the second night. 

That on the battlements tliey walked. 
And by the slowly fading light 

Of vai'jang topics talked : 
And, unaware, the herald-bard 
Said Marmion might his toil have spared 

In travelling so far. 
For that a messenger from heaven 
III vain to James had counsel given 

Against the Englisli war ; 
And, closer questioned, thus he told 
A tale which chronicles of old 
In Scottish stca-y have enrolled : — 

SIR DAVID lindesay's TALE 

" Of all the palaces so fair. 

Built for the royal dwelling 
In Scotland, far beyond compare 

Linlithgow is excelling ; 
And in its park, in jovial June, 
How sweet the merry linnet's tune, 

How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 
The wild buck bells from ferny brake, 
The coot dives merry on the lake, 
The saddest heart might j^leasure take 

To see all nature gay. 
But June is to our sovereign dear 
The heaviest month in all the yeiir ; 
Too well his cause of grief .you know, 
June saw his father's overthrow. 
Woe to the traitors who could bring 
The princely boy against his king ! 
Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
In offices as strict as Lent 
King James's June is ever spent. 

"When last this rvithful montli was 

come. 
And in Linlithgow's holj^ dome 

The king, as wont, was praying ; 
While for his royal father's soul 
The chanters sung, the bells did toll. 

The bishop mass was saying — 
For now the year brought round again 
The day the luckless king wms slain — 
In Catherine's aisle the monarch knelt, 
With sackcloth sliirt and iron belt, 



And eyes with sorrow streaming ; 
Around him in their stalls of state 
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 

Their banners o'er them beaming. 
I too was there, and, sooth to tell. 
Bedeafened with the jangling knell, 
Was watching where the sunbeams fell. 

Through the stained casement gleam- 
ing ; 
But while I marked what next befell 

It seemed as I were dreaming. 
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
In azure gown, with cincture white ; 
His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
Now, mock me not wlien, good my lord, 
I pledge to you my knightly word 
That when I saw iiis placid grace, 
His simple majestj' of face. 
His solemn bearing, and his pace 

So stately gliding on, — 
Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint 
So just an image of the saint 
Who propped the Virgin in her faint. 

The loved Apostle John ! 

" He stepped before the monarch's chair. 
And stood with rustic plainness there, 

And little reverence made ; 
Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent. 
But on the desk his arm he leant, 

And words like these he said. 
In a low voice, — but never tone 
So thrilled through vein, and nei've, and 

bone : — 
' My mother sent me from afar. 
Sir King, to warn tliee not to war, — 

Woe waits on thine array ; 
If war thou wilt, of woman fair. 
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware : 

God keep thee as He may ! ' — 
The wondering monarcli seemed to seek 

For answer, and found none ; 
And when he raised his head to speak. 

The monitor was gone. 
The marshal and myself had cast 
To stop him as he outward passed ; 
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast. 

He vanished from our eyes, 
Like sunbeam on the billow cast. 

That glances but, and dies." 

While Lindesay told his marvel strange 

Tlie twilight was so pale. 
He marked not Marmion's color change 

While listening to the tale ; 
But, after a suspended pause, 
The baron spoke : " Of Nature's laws 



SCOTT 



f35 



So strong I held the force, 
That never superhuman cause 

Could e"er control th.eir covirse, 
And, three days since, had judged your 

aim 
Was but to make your guest your 

game ; 
But I iiave seen, since past the Tweed. 
What much lias changed my sceptic 

creed. 
And made me credit auglit." — He stayed, 
And seemed to wish his words unsaid, 
But, by tliat strong emotion pressed 
Wliich prompts us to unload our breast 

Even when discovery's pain. 
To Lindesay did at length unfold 
The tale his village host had told. 

At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of the Palmer says he there. 
And nought of Constance or of Clare; 
The thoughts which broke his sleep he 

seems 
To mention but as feverish dreams. 

" In vain," said he, " to rest I spread 
My burning limbs and couched my head ; 

Fantastic thoughts returned. 
And, by their wild dominion led. 

My heart within me burned. 
So sore was the delirious goad. 
I took my steed and forth I rode. 
And, as the moon shone bright and 

cold. 
Soon reached the camp upon the wold . 
The southern entrance I passed thi'ough. 
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Metiiought an answer met mj' ear,— 
Yet was tlie blast so low and drear, 
So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
It might be echo of my own. 

" Thus judging, for a little space 
I listened ere I left the place, 

But scarce could trust my eyes. 
Nor yet can think they serve me true, 
AVhen sudden in the ring I view. 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 

A mounted champion rise. — 
I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day. 
In single fight and mixed affray, 
And ever, I myself may say. 

Have borne me as a knight ; 
But when this unexpected foe 
Seemed starting from the gulf below, — 
I care not though the truth I show, — 

I trembled with affright ; 
And as I placed in rest my spear. 
My hand so shook for very fear, 

I scarce could couch it right. 



" Why need my tongue the issue tell ? 
We ran our course, — my charger fell ; — 
What could he "gainst the shock of 
hell ? 

I rolled upon the plain. 
High o'er my head with threatening 

hand 
The spectre shook his naked brand, — ■ 

Yet did the worst remain : 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast. — 
Not opening hell itself could blast 

Their sight like what I saw ! 
Full on his face the moonbeam strook ! — 
A face could never be mistook ! 
I knew the stern vindictive look. 

And held my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 
To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 

I well believe the last ; 
For ne'er from visor raised did stare 
A human warrior with a glare 

So grimly and so ghast. 
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
But wiien to good Saint George I prayed, 
— The first time e'er I asked iiis aid, — 

He plunged it in the sheath. 
And, on his courser mounting light. 
He seemed to vanish from my sight : 
The moonbeam drooped, and deepest 
night 

Sunk down upon the heath. — • 
' T were long to tell what cause I have 

To know his face that met me there. 
Called by his hatred from the grave 

To cumber upper air ; 
Dead or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy." 

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount : 
Then, learned in story, gan recount 

Such chance had happed of old. 
When once, near Norham, there did 

fight 
A spectre fell of fiendish might, 
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 

With Prian Buhner bold. 
And trained him nigh to disallow 
The aid of his baptismal vow, 
•' And such a phantom, too. ' t is said. 
With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
plaid. 

And fingers red with gore. 
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade. 
Or where the sable pine-trees sliade 
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 
And yet, whafer sucli legends say 
Of warlike demon, gliost, or faj", 

On mountain, moor, or plain. 



136 



BRITISH POETS 



Spotless in faitli, in bosom bold, 
True son of cliivaliy should hold 

These mithiight tenors vain ; 
For seldom have such spirits i>ower 
To harm, save in the evil hour 
When guilt we meditate within 
Or harbor unrepented sin." — 
Lord Marmion turned him half aside, 
And twice to clear his voice he tried. 

Then pressed Sir David's hand, — 
But nouglit, at lengtli, in answer said ; 
And liere their furtlier converse stayed, 

Eacli ordering that his band 
Sliould bowne tliein with tlie rising day. 
To Scotland's camp to take tlieir way, — 

Such was the king's command. 

Early tliey took Dun-Edin's road. 
And I could trace each step tliey trode ; 
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, 
Lies on the path to me unknown. 
Much might it boast of storied lore ; 
But, passing such digression o'er. 
Suffice it tliat their route was laid 
Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
They passed the glen and scanty rill. 
And climbed tlie ojiposing bank, until 
They gained the top of Blackford Hill, 

Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast. 

Among the broom and thorn and whin, 
A truant-boy, I souglit the nest, 
Or listed, as I lay at rest. 

While rose on breezes tiiin 
The mvu'inur of the city crowd. 
And. from liis steeple jangling loud. 

Saint Giles's mingling din. 
Now, from tlie summit to the plain. 
Waves all the hill with yellow grain ; 

And o'er tiie landscape as I loolc. 
Nought do I see unchanged remain. 

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. 
To me the.y maJce a heavy moan 
Of early friendships past and gone. 

But different far the change has .been. 

Since Marmion from tlie crown 
Of Blackford saw that martial scene 

Upon the bent so brown : 
Thousand pavilions, wliite as snow. 
Spread all the Borough-moor below, 

Upland, and dale, and down. 
A thousand did I say? . I ween, 
Thousands on thousands there were seen. 
That checkered all the heath between 

The streamlet and the town. 
In crossing ranks extending far. 
Forming a cami) irregular ; 
Oft giving way where still there stood 



Some relics of the old oak wood, 

That darkly huge did intervene 

And tamed the glaring wliite witli green : 

In these extended lines there lay 

A martial kingdom's vast array. 

For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 
Tt) eastern Lodon's fertile plain. 
And from the southern Redsvvire edge 
To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge. 
From west to east, from south to north, 
Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
Marmionniight hear tlie mingled hum 
Of myriads up tlie mountain come, — 
The hoi'ses" tramp and tinkling clank. 
Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, 

And charger's shrilling neigli, — 
And see the siiifting lines advance. 
While frequent flashed from shield and 
lance 

The sun's reflected ray. 

Thin curling in the morning air, 
The wreaths of failing smoke declare 
To embers now the brands (leca3'ed. 
Where the night-watch their tires had 

made. 
They saw, slow rolling on the plain. 
Full many a baggage-cart and wain. 
And dire artillery's clumsy car. 
By sluggish oxen tugged to war ; 
And there were Borthwick's Sisters 

Seven, 
And culverins which France had given. 
Ill-omened gift ! the guns remain 
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 

Nor marked they less where in tlie air 
A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 
Various in shape, device, and hue. 
Green, sanguine, purple, red. and blue. 
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and 

square, 
Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there 

O'er the pavilions flew. 
Highest and midmost, was descried 
The royal banner floating wide ; 

The staff, a pine-tree, sti"ong and 
straight. 
Pitched deeply in a massive stone. 
Which still in memory is shown. 
Yet bent beneath the standard's 
weight, 
Whene'er the ■western wind unrolled 
With toil the huge and cumbrous 
fold. 
And gave to view the dazzling field. 
Where in ]n-oud Scotland's royal shield 
The ruddy lion ramped in gold. 



SCOTT 



137 



Lord Marmion viewed the landscape 

bright. 
He viewed it with a chief's delight, 
Until within him burned his heart, 
And lightning from Jiis eye did part, 

As on the battle-da\' ; 
Such glance did falcon never dart 
Wlien stooping on his prt'3^ 
" Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
Tliy king from warfare to dissuade 

Were but a vain essay ; 
For, by Saint George, were that host 

mine, 
Not power infernal nor divine 
Sliould once to peace my soul incline. 
Till I had dimmed their armor's shine 

In glorious battle-fray ! " 
Answered the bard, of milder mood : 
' Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere 
good 

That kings would think withal. 
When peace and wealth their land has 

blessed , 
'T is better to sit still at rest 
Than rise, perchance to fall. " 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 
For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. 
When sated with the mai'tial show 
That peopled all the plain below; 
The wandering eye could o'er it go. 
And mark the distant citj^ glow 

With gloomy splendor red ; 
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and 

slow, 
That round her sable turrets flow. 

The morning beams were shed, 
And tinged them with a lustre proud. 
Like that which streaks a thunder- 
cloud. 
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height 
Where the huge castle holds its state, 

And all the steep slope down. 
Whose ridgy back heaves to tlie sky, 
Piled deep and massy, close and high. 

Mine own romantic town ! 
But northward far, with purer blaze, 
On Ochil mountains fell the rays. 
And as each heathy top they kissed, 
It gleamed a purple amethyst. 
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw. 
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-law ; 

And, broad between them rolled, 
The gallant Firth the eye niiglit note, 
Whose islands on its bosom float. 

Like emeralds chased in gold. 
Fitz-Evistace' heart felt closely pent ; 
As if to give his rapture vent, 
The spur he to his charger lent, 



And raised his bridle hand, 
And making denii-volt in air. 
Cried, " Where's the coward that would 
not dare 

To fight for such a land ! " 
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see, 
Nor Marmion 's frown repressed his glee. 

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud. 
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud, 

And ftfe, and kettle-drum, 
And sackbut deep, and psaltery. 
And war-pipe with discoixlant cry, 
And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
Making wild music bold and high, 

Did up the mountain come ; 
The whilst the bells with distant chime 
Merrily tolled the liour of prime. 

And thus the Lindesay spoke : 
" Tlius clamor still the war-notes when 
The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
Or to Saint Catherine's of Sienne, 

Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. 
To you they speak of martial fame, 
But me remind of peaceful game. 

When blither was tlieir clieer. 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air. 
In signal none his steed should spare. 
But strive wliich foremost might 
repair 

To the downfall of the deer. 

'' Nor less,"' he said, " when looking forth 
I view yon Empress of the North 

Sit on her hilly throne. 
Her palace's imperial bowers. 
Her castle, proof to hostile powers. 
Her stately halls and lioly towers — 

Nor less," he said, " I moan 
To think what woe mischance may 

bring. 
And how these merry bells may ring 
TJie death-dirge of our gallant king, 

Or with their larum c;iM 
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
'Gainst Southern sack and fires to 
guard 

Dun-Rdin's leaguered wall. — 
But not for my presaging thought. 
Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought ! 

Lord Marmion, I say nay : 
God is the guider of the field. 
He breaks the ciiampion's spear and 
sliield ; 

But thou tliyself slialt say. 
When joins yon liost in deadly stowre. 
That England's dames must weep in 
bower. 

Her monks the death-mass sing ; 



138 



BRITISH POETS 



For never saw'st thou such a power 

Led on by such a king."' 
And now, down winding to the plain, 
The barriers of the camp they gain, 

And there they made a stay, — 
There sta5s tlie Minstrel till he fling 
His hand o'er every Border string, 
And fit his harp the pomp to sing 
Of Scotland's ancient court and king, 

In the succeeding lay. 

CANTO FIFTH 

THE COURT 

The train has left the hills of Braid ; 
The barrier guard have opeii made — 
So Lindesay bade — the palisade 

That closed the tented ground ; 
Their men the warders backward drew , 
And carried pikes as they rode through 

Into its anjple bound. 
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there. 
Upon the Southern band to stare, 
And envy with their wonder rose, 
To see such well-appointed foes ; 
Such length of shafts, such mighty 

bows. 
So huge, that many simply thought 
But for a vavmt such weapons wrought, 
And little deemed their force to feel 
Tlirough links of mail and plates of steel 
When, rattling upon Flodden vale, 
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 

Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
Glance every line and squadron through . 
And much he marvelled one small land 
Could marshal forth such various band ; 

For men-at-arms were here, 
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate. 
Like iron towers for strength and weiglit 
On Flemish steeds of bone and heiglit, 

With battle-axe and spear. 
Young kniglits and squires, a lighter 

train, 
Practised their charges on the plain, 
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 

Each warlike feat to show. 
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
And high curvet, that not in vain 
The sword-sway might descend amain 

On foeman's casque below 
He saw the hardy bui'ghers there 
March armed on foot with faces bare, 

For visor they wore none. 
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
But burnished were their corselets 

bright, 
Their brigantines and gorgets light 



Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight, 

Two-handed swords tliey wore. 
And many wielded mace of weight. 

And bucklers bright they bore. 

On foot the yeoman too. but dressed 
In his steel-jack, a swarthj- vest. 

With iron quilted well ; 
Each at his back — a slender store — 
His forty daj^s' provision bore, 

As feudal statutes tell. 
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, 
A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 

A dagger-knife, and brand. 
Sober lie seemed and sad of cheer, 
As loath to leave his cottage dear 

And march to foreign strand. 
Or musing who would guide his steer 

To till the fallow land. 
Yet deem not in his thoughtful e\e 
Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 

More dreadful far his ire 
Than theirs who, scorning danger's name 
In eager mood to battle came. 
Their valor like light straw on flame, 

A fierce but fading fire. 

Not so the Borderer ; — bred to war, 
He knew the battle's din afar. 

And ]0}'ed to hear it swell. 
His peaceful day was slothful ea.se ; 
Nor harp nor pipe his ear could please 

Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade, 
Tiie light-armed pricker plied his trade, — 

Let noliles fight for fame ; 
Let vassals follow where they lead. 
Burghers, to guard their townships, 
bleed. 

But war's the Borderers' game. 
Their gain, tlieir glory, their delight, 
To sleep the da}', maraud the night. 

O'er mountain, moss and moor ; 
Joyful to fight they took their way, 
Scarce caring who might win the day. 

Their booty was secure. 
These, as Lord Marmion's train passed 

by, 
Looked on at first with careless eye. 
Nor marvelled aught, well taught to 

know 
The form and force of English bow. 
But when thev saw the lord arrayed 
In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
Each Borderer to his kinsman said. — 

" Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! 
Canst guess which road they'll homeward 
ride? 



SCOTT 



139 



Oh ! could we but on Border side, 
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide, 

Beset a prize so fair ! 
That fangless Lion, too, their guide. 
Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 
Brown Maudlin of that doublet pied 

Could make a kirtle rare." 

Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, 
Of different langviage, form, and face, 

A various race of man ; 
Just then the cliiefs their tribes arrayed, 
And wild and garish semblance made 
The checkered trews and belted plaid. 
And varying notes tlie \var-pipes brayed 

To every varying clan. 
Wild through their red or sable Jiair 
Looked out tlieir eyes with savage stare 

On Marmion as he passed ; 
Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
Their frame was sinewy, short, and 
spare. 

And hardened to the blast ; 
Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
Tlie liunted red-deer"s undressed hide 
Their liairy buskins well supplied ; 
The graceful bonnet decked tlieir liead ; 
Back from their shoulders hung the 

plaid ; 
A bi-oads\vord of unwieldj^ length, 
A dagger proved for edge and strength, 

A studded targe tliey wore. 
And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, 

oh! 
Short was tlie shaft and weak the bow 

To that which England bore. 
Tlie Isles-men carried at their backs 
Tlie ancient Danish battle-axe. 
They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 

wlien 
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen 
And. with their cries discordant mixed. 
Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt. 

Thus through the Scottish camp tliey 

passed . 
And reached the city gate at last, 
Where all around, a wakeful guard. 
Armed burghers kept their watch and 

ward. 
Well had tliey cause of jealous fear. 
When lay encamped in field so near 
The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
As through the bustling streets they go, 
AH was alive with martial show ; 
At every turn with dinning clang 



The armorer's anvil clashed and rang, 
Or toiled the swarthy smith to wheel 
The bar that arms tlie charger's heel. 
Or axe or falchion to the side 
Of jarring grindstone was applied. 
Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying 

pace, 
Througli street and lane and market- 
place. 

Bore lance or casque or sword ; 
While burghers, witli important face, 

Described each new-come lord. 
Discussed his lineage, told his name. 
His following, and his warlike fame. 
The Lion led to lodging meet, 
Which high o'erlooked the crowded 
street : 

There must the baron rest 
Till past the hour of ve.sper tide. 
And then to Hoh'-Rood must ride, — 

Such was the king's behest. 
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
A banquet rich and costly wines 

To Marmion and his train ; 
And when the ajipointed hour succeeds. 
The baron dons his peaceful wee<ls. 
And following Lindesay as he leads. 

The palace halls they gain. 

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 

That night with wassail, mirth, and 

glee: 
King James within lier princeh' bower 
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power. 
Summoned to spend the ])artiiig liour ; 
For he had <-liarged that liis array 
Should southward march by break of 

day. 
Well loved that splendid monarch aj^e 

The banquet and tlie song. 
By day the tourney, and by night 
The merry dance, traced fast and liglit. 
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright. 

The revel k)ud and long. 
This feast outshone his banquets past ; 
It was his blithest — and his last. 
The dazzling lamps from gallery gay 
Cast on the court a dancing ray ; 
Here to the harp did minstrels sing, 
There ladies touched a softer string : 
With long-eared cap and motley ve.st. 
The licensed fool retailed .his jest ; 
His magic tricks the juggler plied ; 
At dice and draughts the gallants vied ; 
While some, in close recess apart, 
Courted the ladies of their heart, 

Nor courted them in vain ; 
For often in the parting liour 
Victorious Love asserts his power 



140 



BRITISH POETS 



O'er coldness and disdain ; 
And flinty is her heart can view 
To battle march a lover true — 
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 

Nor own her share of pain. 

Through this mixed crowd of glee and 

game 
The king to great Lord Marmion came. 
While, reverent, all made room. 
An easy task it was, I trow, 
King James's manly form to know, 
Although, his courtesy to show. 
He doff"ed to Marmion bending low 

His broidered cap and plume. 
For royal were his garb and mien : 

His cloak of crimson velvet piled. 

Trimmed with the fur of marten wild, 
His vest of changeful satin sheen, 

The dazzled e^ye beguiled ; 
His gorgeous collar hung adown. 
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 

crown. 
The thistle brave of old renown ; 
His trusty blade, Toledo right. 
Descended from a baldric bright ; 
White were his buskins, on the heel 
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel ; 
His bonnet, all of crimson fair. 
Was buttoned with a ruby rare : 
And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen 
A prince of such a noble mien. 

The monarch's form was middle size. 
For feat of strength or exercise 

Shaped in jn-oportion fair ; 
And hazel was his eagle eye. 
And auburn of the darkest dye 
His short curled beard and hair. 
Light was his footstep in the dance, 

And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
And, oh ! he liad that mei'ry glance 

That seldom ladj^'s heart resists. 
Liglitly from fair to fair he flew. 
And loved to plead, lament and sue, — 
Suit lightly won and short-lived pain. 
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 

I said he joyed in lianquet bower ; 
But, mid his mirth, 't was often strange 
How suddenly his cheer would change, 

His look o'ercast and lower, 
If in a sudden turn he felt 
The pressure of his iron belt. 
That bound his breast in penance pain, 
In memory of his father slain. 
Even so 't was strange how evermore. 
Soon as the passing pang was o'er. 
Forward he rushed with double glee 
Into the sti'eam of revelry. 



Thus dim-seen object of affright 
Startles the cour.ser in his fliglit. 
And half he halts, half springs aside. 
But feels the quickening spur applied. 
And, straining on the tightened rein. 
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 

O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway ; 

To Scotland's court sliecame. 
To be a hostage for her lord. 
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored. 
And with the king to make accord 

Had sent liis lovely dame. 
Nor to that lady free alone 
Did the gay king allegiance own ; 

For the fair Queen of France 
Sent him a turquoise ring and glove. 
And charged him, as her knight and love, 

For her to break a lance. 
And strike three strokes with Scottish 

brand. 
And march three miles on Southron land 
And bid the banners of his band 

In English breezes dance. 
And thus for France's queen he drest 
His manly limbs in mailed vest, 
And thus admitted English fair 
His inmost councils still to share. 
And thus for both he madly planned 
The ruin of himself and land ! 

And yet, the sooth to tell. 
Nor England's fair nor France's queen 
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
sheen. 

From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
His own Queen Margaret, who in Litli- 

gow's bower 
All lonely sat and wept the weary hour. 

The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile. 

And weeps the weary day 
The war against her native soil. 
Her monarch's risk in battle broil, — 
And in gay Holy-Rood the while 
Dame Heron rises with a smile 

Upon the harp to pla}^ 
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 

The sti'ings her fingers flew ; 
And as she touched and tuned them all, 
Ever her bosom's rise and fall 

Was plainer given to view ; 
For, all for heat, was laid aside 
Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
And first she pitched her voice to sing. 
Then glanced her dark eye on the king, 
And then around the silent ring, 
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did 
say 



SCOTT 



141 



Her pretty oath, by yea and nay. 

She could not. would not, durst not play ! 

At length, upon the liarp, with glee, 

Mingled with arch simplicity, 

A soft yet lively air she rung. 

While thus the wily lady sung : — 

LOCHINVAR 

LADY heron's SONG 

Oh ! young Lochinvar is come out of tlie 

west, 
Througli all the wide Border his steed 

was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he 

weapons had none. 
He rode all unarmed and he rode all 

alone. 
So faithful in love and so dauntless in 

war. 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake and he stopped 
not for stone. 

He swam the Eske river where ford there 
was none. 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate 

The bride had consented, tlie gallant 
came late : 

For a laggard in love and a dastard in 
war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he entered tlie Netherby Hall, 
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand 

on his sword. — 
For the poor craven bridegroom said 

never a word, — 
' Oil ! come ye in peace here, or come ye 

in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Locliinxar ■? ' — 

■ I long wooed your daughter, my suit 

you denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 

like its tide — • 
And now am I come, with this lost love 

of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup 

of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more 

lovely by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar.' 



The bride kissed the goblet ; tiie knight 

took it up, 
He quaffed oft' the wine, and he threw 

down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked 

up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in 

her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother 

could bar, — 
' Now tread we a measure ! ' said 3a>ung 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 

face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did 

grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her 

father did fume. 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whispered 

' 'Twere better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with 

young Lochinvar.' 

One touch to her hand and one word in 

her ear. 
When they reached the hall-door, and 

the charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he 

sprung ! 
"She is won ! we are gone, over bank. 

bush, and scaur ; 
Tliey'U have fleet stecnls that follow,' 

quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of 

the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran : 
Thei-e was racing and chasing on Can- 

nobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love and so dauntless in 

war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 

The monarch o'er the siren hung. 
And beat the measure as she sung ; 
And. pressing closer and more near, 
He whispered praises in her ear. 
In loud applause the courtiers vied. 
And ladies winked and spoke aside. 
The witching dame to Marmion 
threw 



142 



BRITISH POETS 



A glance, where seemed to reign 
Tlie pride that claims apphiuses due, 
And of her royal conquest too 
A real or feigned disdain • 
Familiar was the look, and told 
Marmion and slie were friemls of old. 
The king observed their meeting eyes 
With something like displeased sur- 
prise ; 
For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
Straight took he forth the parchment 

broad 
Which Marmion's high commission 

showed : 
" Our Borders sacked by many a raid. 
Our peaceful liege-men robbed," he said, 
" On day of truce our warden slain. 
Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta'en — 
Unworthy were we here to reign, 
Should these for vengeance cry in vain ; 
Our full dehance, hate, and scoi-n, 
Our herald has to Henry borne." 

He paused, and led wliere Douglas stood 
And with stern eye tlie pageant viewed ; 
I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
Wlio coronet of Angus bore. 
And, wlien his blood and heart were 

higli. 
Did the tliird James in camp defy. 
And all liis minions led to die 

On Lauder's drear}' fiat. 
Princess and favorites long grew tame. 
And trembled at tlie homelv name 

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ; 
The same who left the dusky vale 
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 

Its dungeons and its towers. 
Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, 
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, 

To fix his princel}' bowers. 
Though now in age he liad laid down 
His armor for the peaceful gown, 

And for a staflf I lis brand. 
Yet often would flasli fortli the fire 
That could in j'outh a monarcli's ire 

And minion's pride withstand ; 
And even that day at council board. 

Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood. 

Against the war iia<l Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal lord. 

His giant-form, like ruined tower. 
Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt. 
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and 
gaunt. 

Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower ; 
His locks and beard in silver grew, 
His eyebrows kept tlieir sable hue. 



Near Douglas when the monarch stood. 
His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
" Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
That in the North you needs must stay' 

While slightest hopes of peace remain. 
Uncourteous speech it were and stern 
To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 

Until ni)^ herald come again. 
Then rest you in Tantallon hold ; 
Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 
A chief uidike his sires of old. 
He wears their motto on his blade. 
Their blazon o'er his towers displayed. 
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose 
More than to face his country's foes. 

And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, 

But e'en this morn to me was given 
A prize, the first fruits of the war, 
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 

A bevy of the maids of heaven. 
Under your guard these holy maids 
Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
And, while they at Tantallon stay, 
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
And with the slaughtered favorite's 

name 
Across the monarch's brow there came 
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 

In answer nought could Angus speak. 
His proud heart swelled well-nigh to 

break ; 
He turned aside, and down his cheek 

A burning tear there stole. 
His hand the monarch sudden took. 
That sight his kind lieart could not 
brook : 

" Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
For sure as doth his spirit live. 
As he said of the Douglas old, 

I well may say of you, — 
That never king did .subject hold. 
In speech more free, in war more bold, 

]\Iore tender and more true ; 
Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
And, while the king his hand did strain, 
Tlie old man's tears fell down like rain. 
To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
And whispered to the king aside : 
" Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead 
For respite short from dubious deed ! 
A child will weep a bramble's smart, 
A maid to see her sparrow part, 
A stripling for a woman's heart ; 
But woe awaits a country when 
Slie sees the tears of bearded men. 
Then, oh ! what omen, dark and liigh, 
When Douglas wets his manly eye ! " 



SCOTT 



143 



Displeased was James that stranger 

viewed 
And tampered with his changing mood. 
" Laugh those that can, weep those that 

may." 
Thus did the fiery monarcli say, 
" Southward I march by break of day ; 
And if witliin Tantallon strong 
The good Lord ]Marmion tarries long. 
Percliance our meeting next may fall 
At Tamworth in his castle-hall." — 
The hauglity Marmion felt the taunt. 
And answered grave the royal vaunt : 
" Much honored were my humble liume. 
If in its lialls King James should come ; 
But Nottiygliani has archers good. 
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood, 
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
On Derby Hills llie patlis are steep. 
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
And many a banner will be torn. 
And many a kniglit to earth be borne, 
And many a sheaf of arrows spent. 
Ere Scotland's king shall cross the Trent : 
Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you 

may ! "— 
The monarcli lightly turned away. 
And to his nobles loud did call. 
" Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! " 
Himself liis cloak and sword flung by. 
And led Dame Heron gallantly : 
And minstrels, at the royal order. 
Rung out • Blue Bonnets o'er the Border.' 

Leave we these revels now to tell 
Wliat to Saint Hilda's maids befell, 
Whose galley, as they sailed again 
To Wliitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide 
Till James should of their fate decide. 

And soon by his command 
Were gently summoned to prepare 
To journey under Marmion's care, 
As escort lionored. safe, and fair. 

Again to English land. 
The abbess told, her chaplet o'er, 
Nor knew wliich Saint she should 

implore ; 
For. when slie thought of Constance, sore 

She feared Lord Marmion's mood. 
And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
The sword that hung in Marmion's belt 

Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
Unwittingly King James had given, 

As guard to Whitby's shades, 
Tlie man most dreaded under heaven 

By these defenceless maids ; 
Yet wliat petition could avail. 
Or who would listen to the tale 



Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
Tliey deemed it hopeless to avoid 
The convoy of their dangerous guide. 

Their lodging, .so the king assigned, 
To Marmion's as tlieir guardian, joined ; 
And thus it fell that, passing nigli. 
The Palmer caught the abbess' eye. 

Who warned him by a scroll 
She had a secret to reveal 
That mucli concerned the Church's weal 

And health of sinner's soul ; 
And, with deep charge of secrecy, 

She named a place to meet 
Within an open balcony. 
That hung from dizzy pitch and high 

Above the stately street. 
To which, as common to each home. 
At night they might in secret come. 

At night in secret there thej' came, 

The Palmer and tlie holy dame. 

The moon among the clouds rode high, 

And all the city hum was by. 

Upon the street, \\'here late before 

Did din of war and warriors roar. 

You miglit have heard a pebble fall, 
A beetle lium, a cricket sing, 
An owlet flap his boding wing 

On Giles's steeple tall. 
The antique buildings, climbing high. 
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 

Were here wrapt deep in sliade ; 
There on their brows the moonbeam 

broke 
Through the faint wreaths of silvery 
smoke, 

And on the casements played. 
And other light was none to see. 

Save torches gliding far. 
Before some chieftain of degree 
Who left the royal revelry 

Tobowne him for the war. — 
A solemn .scene the abbess cliose, 
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 

" O holj' Palmer ! " she began, — 
•'For sure lie must be .sainted man. 
Whose blessed feet liavetrod the ground 
Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
For his dear Churcli's sake, my tale 
Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
Though I must speak of worldly love, — 
How vain to those wlio wed above ! — 
De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed 
Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood ; — 
Idle it were of Whitby's dame 
To say of that same blood I came ; — 



144 



BRITISH POETS 



And once, when jealous rage was higli, 
Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
Wilton w;is traitor in his heart, 
And had made league witli Martin 

Swart 
When he came here on Simnel's part. 
And only cowardice did restrain 
His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
And down he threw his glove. The 

thing 
Was tried, as wont, before the king ; 
Where frankly did De Wilton own 
That Swart in Guelders he had known. 
And that between them then there 

went 
Somfe scroll of courteous compliment. 
For this he to his castle sent ; 
But when his messenger returned. 
Judge how De Wilton's fury burned ! 
For in his packet there were laid 
Letters that claimed disloyal aid 
And proved King Henry's cause be- 
trayed. 
His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
He strove to clear by spear and 

shield ; — 
To clear his fame in vain he strove. 
For wondrous are His ways above ! 
Perchance some form was unol)served. 
Perchance in prayer or faith he 

swerved. 
Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
Or how tlie blessed ordeal fail '? 

" His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
As recreant doomed to suffer law. 

Repentant, owned in vain 
That while he had the scrolls in care 
A stranger maiden, passing fair. 
Had drenched him with a beverage 
rare ; 

His words no faitli could gain. 
With Clare alone he credence won, 
Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 
To give our house her livings fair 
And die a vestal votaress there. 
The impulse from the earth was given. 
But bent her to the patiis of heaven. 
A pui'er heart, a lovelier maid. 
Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade, 
No. not since Saxon Edelfled ; 
Only one trace of earthly stain, 

That for her lover's loss 
She cherishes a sorrow vain. 

And murmurs at the cross. — 
And then her heritage : — it goes 

Along the banks of Tame ; 
Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 



In meadows rich the heifer lows. 
The falconer and huntsuian knows 

Its woodlands for the game. 
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
And I, her humble votaress here, 

Sliould do a deadl}^ sin. 
Her temple spoiled before mine e3'es, 
If tliis false Marmion sucli a prize 

By my consent should win ; 
Yet liath our boisterous monarch sworn 
Tliat Clare shall from our house be torn. 
And grievous cause have I to fear 
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 

" Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed 
To evil power, I claim tliine aid. 

By every step that thou hast trod 
To holy shrine and grotto dim. 
By every martyr's tortured limb,. 
By angel, saint, and serapliim, 

And by the Church of God ! 
For mark : when Wilton was betrayed, 
And with his squire forged letters laid, 
She wasj alas ! that sinful maid 

By whom the deed was done, — 
Oh ! shame and horror to be said ! 

She was — a perjured nun ! 
No clerk in all the land like her 
Traced quaint and varj'ing character. 
Percliance you may a marvel deem, 

That Marmion 's paramour — 
For sucii vile thing she was — should 
scheme 

Her lover's nuptial hour ; 
But o'er him thus she hoped to gain. 
As jH-ivy to his honor's stain, 

Illimitable power. 
For this slie secreth^ retained 

Each proof that miglit the plot reveal, 

Instructions with his hand and seal ; 
And thus Saint Hilda deigned. 

Through sinners' perfidy impure, 

Her house's glory to secure 

And Clare's immortal weal. 

" 'T were long and needless liere to tell 
How to my hand tl>ese papers fell ; 

With me they must not stay. 
Saint Hilda keep her abbess true ! 
Who knows what outrage he might do 

While journeying by the way ? — 

blessed Saint, if e'er again 

1 venturous leave thy calm domain. 
To travel or by land or nuiin. 

Deep penance may I pay ! — 
Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer : 
I give this packet to thy care, 
For thee to stop they will not dare ; 

And oh ! with cautious speed 



SCOTT 



'45 



To Wolsey's hand tlie papers bring, 
That he may sliow them to tlie king : 

And for thy well-earned meed. 
Thou holy man. at Wiiitby's slirine 
A weekly mass shall still be thine 

While priest can sing and read.— 
What ail'st thou ?— Speak ! "—For as he 

took 
The charge a strong emotion shook 

His frame, and ere reph' 
They Iieard a faint yet shrilly tone, 
Like distant clarion feeblj^ blown, 

Tliat on the breeze did die ; 
And loud the abbess shrieked in fear, 
' ' Saint Withold. save us ! — Wliat is here ; 

Look at yon City Cross ! 
See on its Ijattled tower appear 
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear 

And blazoned banners toss ! " — 

Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillared stone, 

Rose on a turret octagon ; — 

But now is razed that monument, 

Wlience royal edict rang. 
.And voice of Scotland's law was sent 

In glorious ti'umpet-clang. 
Oh ! be his tomb as lead to lead 
Upon its dull destroyers head ! — 
A minstrel's malison is said. — 
Then on its battlements tliey saw 
A vision, passing Natiire's law. 

Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 
Figures that seemed to rise and die, 
Gibber and sign, advance and Hy. 
Wliile nought confirmed coidd ear or eye 

Discern of sound or mien. 
Yet darkly did it seem as there 
Herahls and pursuivants prepare, 
With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 

A summons to proclaim ; 
But indistinct the pageant proud. 
As fancy forms of midnight cloud 
When flings the moon upon her shroud 

A wavering tinge of flame : 
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud. 
From midmost of the spectre crosvd. 

This awful summons came : — 

" Prince, prelate, potentate, and j:»eer. 
Whose names I now sliall call. 

Scottish or foreigner, give ear ! 

Subjects of him who sent me liere. 

At liis tribunal to appear 
I summon one and all : 

I cite you by each deadly sin 

That e'er hath soiled your liearts within ; 

I cite you by each brutal lust 

Tliat e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 
By wrath, by pride, by fear, 



By each o'erniastering passion's tone. 
By the dark grave and dying gi-oan ! 
When forty days are passed and gone, 
I cite you, at your monarch's throne 

To answer and appear." — 
Then thundered forth a roll of names : — 
Tiie first was thine, unhappy James ! 

Then all thy nobles came ; 
Crawford. Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
Why should I tell their separate style ? 

Each chief of birth and fame. 
Of Lowland. Highland. Border. Isle. 
Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage i)ile, 

Was cited there by name : 
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward. and Scrivelbaye ; 
De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
The self-same thundering voice diel 
say.— 

But then another spoke : 
■' Th}' fatal summons I deny 
And thine infernal lord defy, 
Appealing me to Him on high, 

Who burst the sinner's yoke." 
At that dread accent, with a scream, 
Parted the pageant like a dream, 

Tlie summoner was gone. 
Prone on her face the abbess fell. 
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ; 
Her nuns came, startled by the yell. 

And found her there alone. 
Slie marked not, at the scene aghast. 
What time or liow the Palmer passed. 

Shift we the scene. — The camp doth 
move ; 

Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
Save whfen. for weal of those they love. 

To pray the prayer and vow the vow. 
The tottering child, the anxious fair. 
The gray -haired sire, with pious care. 
To chapels and to shrines repair. — 
Where is the Palmer now? and where 
The abbess, Marmion, and Clare ? — 
Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 

Tiiey journey in thy charge : 
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand. 
The Palmer still was with the band : 
Angus, like Lindesay, did command 

That none should roam at large. 
But in that Palmer's altered mien 
A wondrous change might now be seen ; 

Freely he spoke of war. 
Of marvels wrovight by single hand 
AVhen lifted for a native land, 
And still looked high, as if he planned 

Some desperate deed afar. 
His courser would he feed and stroke, 



146 



BRITISH POETS 



And, tucking up ]iis sable frock, 
Would first his mettle bold provoke, 

Then soothe or quell his pride. 
Old Hubert said that never one 
He saw, except Lord Marniion, 

A steed so fairly ride. 

Some half-hour's march behind thei'e 
came, 
By Eustace governed fair 
A troop escorting Hilda's dame, 
With all her nuns and Clare. 
No audience had Lord Marmion sought ; 
Ever he feared to aggravate 
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ; 
And safer 't was, he thought. 
To wait till, from the nuns rejnoved, 
The influence of kinsmen loved. 
And suit by Henry's self approved, 
Her slow consent had wrouglit. 
His was no flickering flame, that dies 
Unless when fanned by looks and sighs 
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
He longed to stretch his wide command 
O'er luckless Clara's amj^le land : 
Besides, when Wilton with him vied, 
Although the pang of liumbled piide 
The place of jealousy supplied, 
Yet conquest, by that meanness won 
He almost loathed to think upon, 
Led him, at times, to hate the cause 
Which made him burst through honor's 

laws. 
If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone 
Who died within that vault of stone. 

And now, when close at hand they saw 
North Berwick's town and lofty Law, 
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile 
Before a venerable pile 

Whose turrets viewed afar 
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 

The ocean's peace or war. 
At tolling of a bell, forth came 
The convent's venerable dame, 
And prayed Saint Hilda's abbess rest 
With her, a loved and honored guest, 
Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
To waft her back to Wliitb}^ fair. 
Glad was the abbess, you may guess, 
And thanked the Scottisli prioress ; 
•And tedious were to tell, I ween. 
The courteous speech that passed be- 
tween. 

O'erjojed the nuns their palfreys 
leave ; 
But when fair Clara did intend, 
Like them, from horseback to descend, 

Fitz-Eustace said : "I grieve. 



Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
Such gentle company to part ; — 

Think not discoiirtesj% 
But lords' commands must be obeyed, 
And Marmion and tlie Douglas said 

That j'ou must wend with me. 
Lord Marmion hatli a letter broad. 
Which to tlie Scottish earl he showed, 
Commanding that beneath his care 
Witliout delay you sliall repair 
To your good kinsman. Lord Fitz-Clare." 

Tlie startled abbess loud exclaimed ; 
But slie at whom the blow was aimed 
Grew pale as death and cold as lead, — 
Slie deemed she heard her death-doom 

read. 
' ' Cheer thee, my cliild ! " the abbess said , 
" Tliey dare not tear thee from mj' h;iiid. 
To ride alone witli armed band.'" — 

" Nay, holy mother, nay," 
Fitz Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
Will be in Lady Angus' care, 

In Scotland while we stay ; 
And when we move an easy ride 
Will bring us to the English side. 
Female attendance to provide 

Befitting Gloster's heir ; 
Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, 
By slightest look, or act, or word. 

To harass Lady Clare. 
Her faithful guardian he will be, 
Nor sue for slightest courtesy 

Tliat e'en to stranger falls. 
Till lie shall place her safe and fi-ee 

Within her kinsman's lialls." 
He spoke, and blushed with earnest 

grace ; 
His faith was painted on his face, 

And Clare "s worst fear relieved. 
The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed 
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed. 

Entreated, tlireatened. grieved. 
To martyr, saint, and prophet prayetl. 
Against Lord Marniion inveighed. 
And called the prioress to aid, 
To curse with candle, bell, and boolc. 
Her head the grave Cistertian shook : 
" The Douglas and the king," she said, 
" In their commands will be obeyed ; 
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can 

fall 
The maiden in Tantallon Hall."' 

The abbess, seeing strife was vain. 
Assumed her wonted state again, — 

For much of state she had. — 
Composed her veil, and raised lier head. 
And " Bid," in solemn voice she said. 



SCOTT 



147 



'♦ Thy master, bold and bad. 
The records of liis house turn o'er, 
And, when lie shall there written see 
That one of his own ancestry 
Drove the monks forth of Coven tr}-, 
Bid him his fate exploie ! 

Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 
His cliarger hurled liim to the dust. 
And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
He died his band before. 

God judge 'twixt Marmion and me : 
He is a chief of high degree, 
And I a poor recluse, 

Yet oft in holy writ we see 
Even such weak minister as me 
May the oppressor bruise ; 

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 

The niiglity in his sin, 
And Jael thus, and Deborah " — 
Here hasty Blount broke in : 
" Fitz-Eustace, we must marcli our band ; 
Saint Anton fire thee ! wilt tliou stand 
All day, with bonnet in thy hand. 

To hear tlie lady preacii V 
By this good light ! if thus we stay, 
Lord Marmion for our fond delay 

Will sharper sermon teach. 
Come, don thy cap and mount thy horse : 
The dame must patience take perforce." 

"Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
" But let this barbarous lord des^wiir 

His purposed aim to win ; 
Let him take living, land, and life, 
But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
In me were deadly sin : 
And if it be the king's decree 
That I must find no sanctuary 
In that inviolable dome 
Where even a homicide might come 

And safely rest his head. 
Though at its open portals stood, 
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, 

The kinsmen of the dead, 
Yet one asylum is my own 

Against the dreaded hour, — 
A low, a silent, and a lone. 

Where kings have little power. 
One victim is before me there. — 
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer 
Remember your unhappy Clare ! " 
Loud weeps the abbess, and bestows 

Kind blessings many a one ; 
Weeping and wailing loiid arose. 
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 

Of every simple nun. 
His ej^es the gentle Eustace dried, 
And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
bide. 



Then took the squire her rein, 
And gently led away her steed, 
And by each courteous word and deed 

To cheer her strove in vain. 

But scant three miles the band had rode. 

When o'er a height they passed, 
And, sudden, close before them showed 

His towers Tantallon vast, 
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
And held impregnable in war. 
On a projecting rock they rose. 
And round three sides the ocean flows. 
The fourth did battled walls enclose 

And double mound and fosse. 
F>y narrow drawbridge, outworks strong. 
Til rough studded gates, an entrance 
long. 

To the main court they cross. 
It was a wide and stately square ; 
Around were lodgings fit and fair, 

And towers of various form, 
Wliich on the court projected far 
And broke its lines quadrangular. 
Here was square keep, there turret higli, 
Or pinnacle that sought the sky. 
AVlience oft the warder could descry 

The gathering ocean-storm. 

Here did they rest. — The princely care 
Of Douglas why should I declare, 
Or say they met reception fair '? 

Or why the tidings say. 
Which varying to Tantallon came, 
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame. 

With ever}^ varying dfiy ? 
And, first, they heard King James had 
won 

Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then. 

That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
At that sore marvelled Marmion, 
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
Would soon subdue Northumberland ; 

But whispered news there came. 
That while his host inactive lay. 
And melted by degrees away. 
King James was dallying off the day 

With Heron's wily dame. 
Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 

Go seek them there and see : 
Mine'is a tale of Flodden Field, 

And not a history. — 
At length they heard the Scottish host 
On that higli ridge had made their post 

Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain ; 
And that brave Surrey many a band 
Had gathered in tiie Sontliern land. 
And marched into Nortliumberlaud, 

And camp at Wooler ta'en. 



148 



BRITISH POETS 



Marmion, like chai-gei- in the stall. 
That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 

Began to chafe and swear : — 
" A sorry thing to hide my head 
In castle, like a fearful maid, 

When such a field is near. 
Needs must I see this battle-day ; 
Death to my fame if such a fray 
Were fouglit, and Marmion awny ! 

The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 

Hath bated of liis courtesy ; 
No longer in his halls I'll stay : " 
Tlien bade his band they should array 
For march against the dawning day. 

CANTO SIXTH 

THE BATTLE 

While great events were on the gale. 
And each hour brought a varying tale. 
And the demeanor, changed and cold, 
Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, 
And, like the impatient steed of war, 
He snuffed the battle from afar, 
And hopes were none that back again 
Herald should come from Terouenne, 
Where England's king in leaguer lay. 
Before decisive battle-day. — 
While these tilings were, the mournful 

Clare 
Did in the dame's devotions share ; 
For the good countess ceaseless prayed 
To Heaven and saints her sons to aid. 
And with short iiiterval did pass 
From prayer to book, from book to mass. 
And all in liigli baronial pride, — 
A life both dull and dignified : 
Yet. as Lord Marmion nothing pressed 
Upon her intervals of rest. 
Dejected Clara well could bear 
The formal state, the lengthened prayer, 
Tliough dearest to her wounded heart 
The hours tliat siie might spend apart. 

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep 
Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
Many a rude tower and rampart tliere 
Repelled tlie insult of the air. 
Wliich. when the tempest vexed the sky, 
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling 

by. 
Above the rest a turret square 
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear. 
Of sculpture rude, a stony sliield ; 
The Blood}' Heart was in the field. 
And in the cliief three mullets stood, 
Tlie cognizance of Douglas blood. 
Tlie turret lield a narrow stair. 
Which, mounted, gave you access where 



A parapet's embattled row 

Did seaward round tlie castle go. 

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 

Sometimes in narrow circuit bending. 

Sometimes in platform broad extending. 

Its varying circle did combine 

Bulwark, and bartizan, and line. 

And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign. 

Above the booming ocean leant 

The far-projecting battlement ; 

The billows burst in ceaseless flow 

UlK)ii the precipice below. 

Where'er Tantallon faced the land. 

Gate-works and walls were strongly 

manned ; 
No need upon the sea-girt side : 
The steepy lock and frantic tide 
Ap))roach of human step denied. 
And thus these lines and ramparts rude 
Were left in deepest solitude. 

And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
Would to these battlements repair, 
And muse upon her sorrows there, 

And list the sea-bird's cry, 
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would 

glide 
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side. 
And ever on the heaving tide 

Look down with weary eye. 
Oft did the cliff and swelling main 
Recall tlie thoughts of Whitley's fane, — 
A home slie ne'er might see again ; 

For she liad laid adown. 
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
jVnd frontlet of the cloister pale. 

And Benedictine gown : 
It were unseemly sight, he said, 
A novice out of convent shade. — 
Now her bright locks with sunny glow 
Again adorned her brow of snow ; 
Her mantle rich, whose borders round 
A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
In golden foldings souglit the ground ; 
Of holy ornament, alone 
Remained a cross with ruby stone ; 

And often did she look 
On th.at which in her hand she bore, 
AVith velvet bound and broidered o'er, 

Her breviary book. 
In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
At dawning pale or twilight dim, 

It fearful would have been 
To meet a form so richly dressed. 
With book in hand, and cross on breast, 

And such a woful mien. 
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, 
To practise on tlie gull and crow, 
Saw her at distance gliding slow, 



SCOTT 



149 



And did by Mary swear 
Some lovelorn fay she miglit liave been, 
Or in romance some spell-bound queen, 
For ne'er in work-day world was seen 

A form so witching fair. 

Once walking thus at evening tide 
It clianced a gliding sail slie spied, 
And sighing thouglit — ■" The abbess there 
Perchance does to her home repair ; 
Her peaceful rule, wliere Duty free 
Walks hand in liand with Charity. 
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow 
Tliat the enraptured sisters see 
Higli vision and deep mystery, — 
The very form of Hilda fair. 
Hovering upon the sunny air. 
And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
Oil ! wherefore to my duller eye 
Did still tlie Saint her form deny ? 
Was it that, seared by sinfid scorn. 
My heart could neither melt nor burn? 
Or lie my warm affections low 
With him that taught them first to 

glow ? 
Yet, gentle abbess, well I knew 
To pay thy kindness grateful due. 
And well could brook the mild com- 
mand 
That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
How different now, condemned to biile 
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride ! — 
But Marmion has to learn ere long- 
That constant mind and liate of wrong 
Descended to a feeble girl 
From Red de Clare, stout Gloster's Earl ; 
Of sucli a stem a sapling weak. 
He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 

" But see ! — wliat makes tliis armor 

here ? " — 
For in lier path tliere lay 
Targe, corselet, helm ; she viewed them 

near. — 
" The breastplate pierced ! — A3% much I 

fear, 
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 

spear 
That hath made fatal entrance here, 

A.S these dark blood-gouts say. — 
Tlius Wilton! Oh! not corslet's ward, 
Not truth, as diamond pure and liard. 
Could be tliy manly bosom's guard 

On j'on disastrous day ! " — 
Slie raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
Wilton liimself before her stood ! 
It might have seemed Ins passing ghost. 
For every youthful grace was lost, 



And joy unwonted and surprise 

Gave tlieir strange wildness to his 

eyes.— 
Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
That I can tell such scene in words : 
Wiiat skillful limner e'er would choose 
To paint the rainbow's varying hues, 
Unless to mortal it were given 
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
Far less can my weak line declare 

Each changing passion's shade : 
Brightening to rapture from despair, 
Sorrow, surprise, and ])ity tliere, 
And joy with her angelic air. 
And hope that paints the future fair 

Their varying hues displayed ; 
Each o'er its rival's ground extending. 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blend- 
ing, 
Till all fatigued the conflict yield, 
And mighty love retains the field. 
Shoi'tly I tell what then lie said, 
By many a tender word delayed, 
And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
And question kind, and fond reply ; — 

DE WILTON'S HISTORY 

•' Forget we that disastrous day 
When senseless in the lists I lay. 

Thence dragged, — but how I cannot 

k'UOW 

For sense and recollection fled, — 

I found me on a jiallet low 

Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 

Austin, — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush wlien the old man, 

When first our infant love began, 

Said we would make a matchless 
pair ■? — 
]\Ienials and friends and kinsmen fled 
l^'rom the degraded traitor's bed — 
Heotdy held my liurning head, 
And tended me for many a day 
While wounds and fever held their sway. 
But far more needful was his care 
When sense returned to wake despair 

For I did tear the closing wound, 

And dash me frantic on tlie ground, 
If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
At length, to calmer reason brought. 
Much by his kind attendance wrouglit, 

With him I left my native strand, 
And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed 
My hated nauie and form to shade, 

I journeyed many a land. 
No more a lord of rank and birth. 
But mingled with the tliegs of earth. 

Oft Austin for my reason feared, 



ISO 



BRITISH POETS 



When I would sit, and deeply brood 
On dark revenge and deeds of blood, 

Or wild mad sclienies upreared. 
My friend at length fell sick, and said 

God would remove him soon ; 
And while upon his dying bed 

He begged of me a boon — 
If e'er my deadliest enemy 
Beneath my brand should conquered lie, 
Even then my merc)^ should awake 
And spare his life for Austin's sake. 

" Still restless as a second Cain, 

To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 

Full well tlie patlis I knew. 
Fame of my fate made various sound, 
That deatli in pilgrimage I found, 
That I had perished of m}^ wound. — 

None cared which tale was true ; 
And living eye could never guess 
De Wilton in his palmer's dress, 
For now that sable slough is shed, 
And trimmed my shaggy beard and 

head , 
I scarcely know me in the glass. 
A chance most wondrous did provide 
That I should be that barons guide — 

I will not name his name ! — 
Vengeance to God alone belongs ; 
But, when I think on all my wrongs, 

My blood is liquid flame ! 
And ne'er the time shall I forget 
When, in a Scottish hostel set, 

Dark looks we did excliange : 
What were his thoughts I cannot tell, 
But in my bosom mustered Hell 

Its plans of dark revenge. 

" A word of vulgar augury 
That broke from me, I .scarce knew 
why, 

Brought on a village tale. 
Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
Antl sent liim armed fortli by night. 

I borrowed steel and mail 
And weapons from liis sleeping band ; 

And, passing from a postern door, 
We met and countered, hand to hand, — 

He fell on Gifford-moor. 
For the death-stroke my brand I drew, — 
Oh ! then my hehned head lie knew, 

The palmer's cowl was gone. — 
Then had tluee inches of my blaile 
The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
My hand the thovight of Austin stayed ; 

I left liim there alone, — 
O good old man ! even from the grave 
Thy spirit could thy master save : 
If i had slain my foeman, ne'er 



Had Whitby's abbess in her fear 
Given to my hand this packet dear, 
Of power to clear my injured fame 
And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
Perchance you heard tlie abbess tell 
Of the strange pageantry of liell 

That broke our secret speecli — 
It rose from the infernal shade. 
Or featly was some juggle played, 

A tale of peace to teach. 
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best 
Wlien my name came aniong the rest. 

'• Now here witliin Tantallon hold 

To Douglas late my tale I told. 

To whom my house was known of old. 

Won by my proofs, his falcliion bright 

Tliis eve anew shall d»il> me knight. 

Tliese were the arms that once did turn 

The tide of tight on Otterburne, 

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield 

When the Dead Douglas won tlie field. 

These Angus gave — his armorers care 

Ere morn shall every breach repair ; 

For nought, lie said, was in his halls. 

But ancient armor on the walls. 

And aged chargers in the stalls, 

And women, priests, and gray-haired 

men ; 
The rest were all in Twisel glen. 
And now I watch my armor here. 
By law of arms, till midnight's near ; 
Then, once again a belted knight, 
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of liglit. 

" There soon again we meet, my Clare ! 
This baron means to guide thee there : 
Douglas reveres his king's command. 
Else would he take thee from his band. 
And there thy kinsman Surrey, too. 
Will give De Wilton justice due. 
Now meeter far for martial broil. 
Firmer my liml)s and strung by toil. 
Once more'' — " O Wilton ! must we then 
Risk new-found liappiness again. 

Trust fate of arms once more ? 
And is tliere not an humble glen 

Where we, content and poor. 
Might build a cottage in the shade, 
A shepherd thou, and I to aid 

Thy task on dale and moor ? — 
That redilening brow ! — too well I know 
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow 

While falsehood stains thy name : 
Go then to figlit ! Clare bids thee go ! 
Clare can a warrior's feelings know 

And weep a warrior's shame. 
Can Red Earl Gill^ert's spirit feel. 
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel 



SCOTT 



151 



And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 
And send thee forth to fame ! " 

That night upon the rocks and baj^ 
The midnight moonbeam slumbering 

lay, 
And poured its silver light and pure 
Through loophole and through embra- 
sure 

Upon Tantallon tower and hall : 
But chief where arciied windows wide 
Illuminate the chapeTs pride 

The sober glances fall. 
Much was there need ; though seamed 

vvnth scars. 
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 

Though two gray priests were tliere, 
And each a blazing torch held high. 
You could not by their blaze descry 

The chapel's carving fair. 
Amid tliat dim and smok}' liglit. 
Checkering the silvery moonshine bright, 

A bishop by the altar stood, 

A noble lord of Douglas blood. 
With mitre slieen and rocliet white. 
Yet showed Ids meek and thoughtful eye 
But little pride of prelacy ; 
More pleased that in a barbarous age 
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page 
Than that beneath his rule he held 
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
Beside him ancient Angus stood. 
Doffed his furred gown and sable hood ; 
O'er his huge form and visage pale 
He wore a cap and shirt of mail. 
And leaned iiis large and wrinkled hand 
Upon the inige and sweejiing brand 
Which wont of j'ore in battle fray 
His foeman's limbs to shred away. 
As wood-knife lops the sai)ling spray. 

He seemed as, from the tomks around 
Rising at judgment-day. 

Some giant Douglas may be found 
In all his old array ; 
So pale his face, so huge his limb, 
So old his arms, his look so grim. 

Then at the altar Wilton kneels. 
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels : 
And tliink what next he must have felt 
At buckling of the falchion belt ! 

And judge how Clara changed her hue 
While fastening to her lover's side 
A friend, which, thougli in danger tried, 

He once had found luitrue ! 
Then Douglas struck Itim with his blade : 
"Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 

I dub thee knight. 
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir ! 



For king, for church, for lady fair, 

See that thou fight." 
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose. 
Said : " Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes, 

Disgrace, and trouble ; 
For He who honor best bestows 

May give thee double." 
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must : 
" Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 

That Douglas is my brother ! " 
" Nay, nay," old Angus said, " not so ; 
To Surrey's camp thou now must go. 

Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
I have two sons in yonder field ; 
And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
Upon tlie?« bravelj' — do thy worst, 
And foul fall him that blenches first ! " 

Not far advanced was morning day 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride : 
He had safe-conduct for his band 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide. 
The ancient earl with stately grace 
Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
And whispered in an undertone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
The train from ovit the castle drew. 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : 

" Though something I might plain," he 
said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest. 

While in Tantallon's towers I .stayed. 
Part we in friendship from your land. 
And, noble earl, receive my hand." — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 
Folded his arms, and thus lie spoke : — 
" My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
Be open at my sovereign's will 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be tiie owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone. 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
Tlie hand of Douglas is his own, 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like 

fire 
And shook his verj- frame for ire. 
And — " This to me ! " he said, 
" An 't were not for thy hoary beard. 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spai'ed 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And first I tell thee, haughty peer. 
He who does England's message liere. 
Although the meanest in her state, 



152 



BRITISH POETS 



May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; 
And. Douglas, more I tell tliee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride. 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near. — 
Nay. never look upon your lord, 
And laj^ your hands upon vour sword, — 

I tell thee, thou "rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowdand or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied I " 
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen line of age : 
Fierce he broke forth. — *' And darest thou 

then 
To beard the lion in his den , 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to 

go ?— 
No, by Saint Bride of Both well, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, 
ho! 

Let the portcullis fall, — " 
Lord Marmion turned. — well was his 

need. — 
And dashed the rowels in his steed. 
Like arrows tlirough the archway sprung 
The ponderous grate behind him rung ; 
To pass there w^as such scanty room, 
The bars descending razed his illume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies 
Just as it trembled on tlie rise ; 
Not lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
And wdien Lord Marmion reached his 

band, 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours. 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
' ' Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried , • ' an d 

chase ! " 
But soon he reined his fury's pace : 
" A royal messenger lie came. 
Tliuugli most unworthy of the name. — 
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to sneeil ! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ? i 

1 Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's 
astonishment and consider the crime as incon- 
sistent with the manners of the period, I have to 
remind him of the numerous forgeries (partly 
executed by a female assistant ) devised by 
Kobert of Artois, to forward his suit against the 
Countess Matilda ; which, being detected, occa- 
sioned his flight into England, and proved the 
remote cause of Edward the Third's memorable 
wars in France. John Harding, also, was ex- 
pressly hired by Edward IV. to foitre such docu- 
ments as might appear to estabhsli the claim of 
foiilty asserted over Scotland by the English 
mouarchs. {Scott's note.) 



At first in heart it liked me ill 
When the king praised his clerkly skill. 
Tlianks to Saint Bothan. son of mine, 
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a, line ; 
So swore I, and I swear it still, 
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood I 
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
I thought to slay him where he stood. 
'T is pity of him too," he cried : 
• Bold can he speak and fairly ride, 
I warrant him a warrior tried." 
With this his mandate he recalls, 
And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

Tiie day in Marmion's journey w^ore ; 
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er. 
Tliey crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor, 
His troop more closely there he scanned, 
And missed the Palmer from the band. 
" Palmer or not." young Blount did say, 
" He parted at the peep of day ; 
Good sooth, it was in strange array." 
"In what array?" said Marmion quick. 
" My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
Btit all night long wdth clink and bang . 
Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
And from a loophole while I peep. 
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep. 
Wrapped in a gown of saljles fair. 
As fearfid of the morning air : 
Beneath, wdien that was blown aside, 
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
B}' Archibald won in bloody work 
Against the Saracen and Turk ; 
Last night it hung not in the liall ; 
I thought some marvel would l)efall. 
And next I saw them saddled lead 
Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best st(>ed, 
A. matchless liorse, tlioughsomethiiigold. 
Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 
I lieard tiie Sherifl: Sholto say 
Tlie earl did much the Master pray 
To use him on the battle-day. 
But he preferred" — " Nay, Henr3\ cease ! 
Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 

peace. — 
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray, 
What did Blount see at break of day ? " — 

•' In brief, my lord, we both descried — 
For then I stood by Henry's side — 
The Palmer mount and outwards ride 

Upon the earl's own favourite steed. 
All sheathed he was in armour bright, 
And much resembled that same knight 
Subdued by you in ("otswold figlit ; 

Lord Angus wished him speed." — 



SCOTT 



153 



Tlie instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
A sudden light on Marmion broke : — 
'• Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! " 
He muttered ; •' "T was nor fay nor ghost 
I met upon the moonlight wold, 
But living man of earthly mould. 

O dotage blind and gross ! 
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 

My patli no more to cross. — 
How stand we now ?^he told his tale 
To Douglas, and witli some avail : 

'T was therefore gloomed his rugged 
brow. — 
Will Surrey dare to entertain 
"Gainst Marmion charge disproved and 
vain ? 

Small risk of that, I trow. 
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I sluai. 
Must separate Constance from the nun — 
Oh ! what a tangled web we weave 
When first we practise to deceive ! 
A Palmer too ! — no wonder wliy 
I felt rebuked beneath his ej'e ; 
I naight have known there was but one 
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." 

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 

speed 
His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed, 
Where Lennel's convent closed tlieir 

marcli. 
Tiiere now is left but one frail arch, 

Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
Our time a fair exchange has made : 
Hard by, in hospitable shade 

A reverend pilgrim dwells. 
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or Iiood. 
Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there 
Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
And lodging for his train and Clare. 
Next morn the baron climbed the tower. 
To view afar the Scottish power, 

Encamped on Elodden edge : 
Tlic wliite pavilions made a sliow 
Like remnants of the winter snow 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Long Marmion looked : — at length his 

eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines ; 
The Scottish host di'awn out appears, 
For, flashing on the hedge of spears, 

Tlie eastern sunbeam shines. 
Their fi-ont now deepening, now extend- 
ing. 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bend- 
ing, 



Now drawing back, and now descend- 
ing. 
The skilful Marmion well could know 
The}" watched the motions of some foe 
Who traversed on the plain below. 

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
The Scots beheld the English host 
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening 

post. 
And lieedful watched them as they 
crossed 
Tlie Till by Twisel Bridge.i 

High sight it is and haughty, while 
They dive into the deep defile ; 
Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 
Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. 
Troop after troop are disappearing ; 
Troop after troop their banners rear- 
ing 
Upon the eastern bank you see ; 
Still pouring down the rockj^ den 

Where flows the sullen Till. 
And rising from the dim-wood glen. 
Standards on standards, men on men, 

In slow succession still. 
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang, 
x\nd many a chief of birth and rank. 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, wliich now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. 
Had then from many an axe its doom. 
To give the marching columns room. 
And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 



' On the eveniiiR previous to the. memorable 
l);ittle of Floflrlen, SiuTRv's headquarters were 
at Bannore-wood, and King James held an in- 
accessible position on the ridge of Flodden-hiU, 
one of the last and lowest eminences detached 
from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a deep and 
slow river, winded between the armies. On the 
morning of the 9th September, 1.513, Surrey 
marched in a northwesterly direction, and 
crossed the Till, with his van and artillery, at 
Twifel-bridge, nigh where that river joins the 
Tweed, his rear-guard column passing about a 
mile higher, by a ford. This movement had 
the double effect of placing his army between 
King James and hi? supplies from Scotland 
and of striking the Scottish monarch with sur- 
prise, as he seems to have relied on the depth 
of the river in liis front. But as the passage, 
both over the bridge and through the ford, was 
difficult and slow, it seems possible that the 
English might have been attacked to great ad- 
vantage, while struggling with these natural ob- 
stacles. — {Scott). 



154 



BRITISH POETS 



Since England gains the pass the while, 
And struggles through the deep defile ? 
Wiiat checks the fiery soul of James ? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees, between him and his land. 
Between him and Tweed's southern 
strand, 

His host Lord Surrey lead ? 
What vails the vain knight-errant's 

brand ? — 
O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 
Oh ! for one hour of Wallace wight, 
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight 
And cry, ' ' Saint Andrew and our right ! " 
Another sight liad seen that morn, 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannock- 
bourne ! — 
The precious hour has passed in vain. 
And Englatid's host has gained the plain. 
Wheeling their march and circling still 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 

Ere 3'et the bands met Marmion's eye, 
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
" Hark ! hark ! my lord,an English drum! 
And see ascending squadrons come 

Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
Foot, horse, and cannon ! Hap what hap. 
My basnet to a prentice cap, 

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! — 
Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed 
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 

And sweep so gallant by ! 
With all their banners bravely spread. 

And all their armor flashing high. 
Saint George might waken from the 
dead, 

To see fair England's standards fl}'.'" — 
"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, 

" thou 'dst best. 
And listen to our lord's behest." — 
With kindling brow Lord Marmionsaid, 
'■ This instant be our band arrayed ; 
The river must be quickly crossed. 
That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
If fight King James, — as well I trust 
That fight he will, and fight he must,— 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry while the battle joins." 

Himself he swift on horseback threw, 
Scarce to the abbot bade adieu, 
Far less would listen to his prayer 
To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
Down to the Tweed liis band he drew, 
And muttered as the flood they view, 



" The pheasant in the falcon's claw. 
He scarce will yield to please a daw ; 
Lord Angus may the abbot awe, 

So Clare shall bide with me." 
Then on that dangerous ford and deep 
Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 

He ventured desperately : 
And not a moment will he bide 
Till squire or groom before him ride ; 
Headmost of all he stems the tide. 

And stems it gallantly. 
Eustace lield Clare upon her horse, 

Old Hvibert led her rein. 
Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
And, though far dowMiward driven per- 
force. 

The southern bank they gain. ' 
Behind them straggling came to shore, 

As best thej"^ might, the train : 
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 

A caution not in vain ; 
Deep need that day that every string. 
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed. 
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed. 

Then forward moved his band. 
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
He halted by a cross of stone. 
That on a hillock standing lone 

Did all the field command. 

Hence might they see the full array 
Of either host for deadlj^ fray ; 
Their marshalled lines stretched east 
and west. 

And fronted north and south. 
And distant salutation passed 

From the loud cannon movith ; 
Not in the close successive rattle 
That breathes the voice of modern batt le. 

But slow and far between. 
The hillock gained. Lord Marmion 

stayed : 
" Here, by this cross," he gentlj* said, 

" You well may view the scene. 
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
Thou wilt not ? — well, no less my care 
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — 
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard. 

With ten picked archers of my train ; 
With England if the day go hard. 

To Berwick .speed amain. — 
But if weconcpier, criiel maid, 
My spoils shall at j^our feet be laid, 

When here we meet again." 
He waited not for answer there, 
And would not mark the maid's despair, 

Nor heed the discontented look 



SCOTT 



^55 



From either squire, but spurred amain. 
And, dashing through the battle-plain, 
His way to Surrey took. 

" The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 

Welcome to danger's ln)ur ! — 
Short gi'eeting serves in time of strife. — 

Thus have I ranged mj^ power : 
Myself will rule this central host, 

Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
My sons command tlie vaward post, 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight ; 

Lord Dacre. with his horsemen liglit, 

Sliall be in rearward of tlie figlit. 
And succor those that need it most. 

Now. gallant Marmion. well I know, 

Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
Edmund, the Admiral. Tunstall there. 
With thee their charge will blithely 

share ; 
There fight tliine own i-etaiuers too 
Beneath De Biu-g. tliy steward true." 
" Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said, 
Nor further greeting there he paid, 
But, parting like a thunderbolt. 
First in the vanguard made a halt. 

Where such a siiout there rose 
Of"' Marmion ! Marmion ! " that the cry, 
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 

Startled the Scottish foes. 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the liill. 
On whicli — for far tlie day was spent — 
The western sunbeams now were bent : 
Tlie cry they lieard. its meaning knew. 
Could plain their distant comrades view : 

Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
" Unworthy office here to stay ! 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of tlie hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor Jiiinstrel tone. 
Announced their march ; their tread 

alone. 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes 
Until at weapon-point they close. — 
They close in clouds of smoke and dust. 



With sword-sway and with lance's 
thrust ; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth. 
As if men fought upon the earth. 

And fiends in upper air : 
Oh ! life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long looked the anxious squires ; their 

eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
And first the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears. 
And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
As in the storm the white seaniew. 
Then marked they, dashing broad and 

far, 
The broken billows of the war. 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But nought distinct they see : 
Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook and falchions flashed 

amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderl3^ 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marniion's falcon fly ; 
And stainless Tuiistall's banner white. 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright. 
Still bear them bravely in the fight, 

Althougli against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly and with Home. — 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle. 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. 
And flung the feeble targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword 

plied. 
' T was vain. — But Fortune, on the right. 
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's 

fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marniion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent tiie sky • 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 



IS6 



BRITISH POETS 



Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, 
now high. 

The pennon snnk and rose : 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear : 
" By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace. you witli Lady Clare 
May bid j'our beads and patter prayer, — 

I gallop to the host." 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
Followed by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
Made for a space an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around. 
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground 

It sank among the foes._ 
Then Eustace mounted too, — yet stayed, 
As loath to leave the helpless maid. 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
The loose rein dangling from his head, 
Housing and saddle bloody red, 

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 

Ask me not what the maiden feels. 

Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own, 

Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
The scattered van of England wheels ; — 

She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roared. '• Is Wilton there? '" — 

They fly, or, maddened by despair, 

Fight but to die. — " Is Wilton there V '" 
With tliat, straight up the hill there rode 

Two horsemen drenched with gore. 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken bnind ; 
His arms where smeared with blood and 

sand. 
Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield and helmet beat. 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
Can tliat be haughty Mavmion ! . . . 
Young Blount his armor did unlace, 
Ami. gazing on his ghastly face. 

Said, " By Saint George, he's gone ! 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 



Good-night to Marmion.'" — 
" Unnurtured Blount ! th}' brawling 

cease : 
He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; 
" peace ! " 

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 

Around gan Marmion wildly stare : 

' • Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace 

where ? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry, • Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — 
Yet my last thought is England's — fly. 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace. to Lord Surrey hie : 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field. 
His lifeblood stains the spotless shield : 
Edmund is down ; my life is reft ; 
The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire. — 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host. 
Or victory and England's lost. — 
]\Iust I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly ! — 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
They parted, and alone he lay ; 
Clare drew her from the sight away. 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murnuired, " Is there none 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cv;p to bring 
Of blessed water from tlie spring. 
To slake my d^ang thirst ! " 

O Woman ! in our hours of ease 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to i<lease. 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the 

brows, 
A ministering angel thou ! — ■ 
Scarce were the piteous accents said. 
When with the baron's casque the maid 

To the nigli streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side 
Where raged the war. a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ? — behold her 
mark 

A little fountain cell, 



SCOTT 



^57 



Where water, clear as diamond spark. 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 

2)iinft. weari5. pilgrim. J)rinh. anD. 

prav). 
3for. tbe. l^inD. soul, of, Sib^l. ©re^. 
iMbo. built. tbi6. cross. an&. well. 

Slie rilled the helm and back she hied, 
And with snrprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's liead ; 
A pious mail, whom duty brought 
To dubious %'erge of battle fought. 

To shrive tiie dying, bless the dead. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
And. as she stooped his brow to lave — 
•• Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
" Or injured Constance, bathes my 
head ? " 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to 

spare ; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " 

" Alas ! '■ siie said, " the while. — 
Oh ! tliink of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zeal I 

She — died at Holy Isle." — 
Lord Marmion started from the ground 
As light as if he felt no wound, 
Tiiough in the action burst the tide 
In torrents from liis wounded side. 
" Tlien it was truth," lie said — *' I knew 
That tlie dark presage nivist be true. — 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
Tiie vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

Would spare me but a day ! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
And priests slain on the altar stone, 

Might bribe him for delay. 
It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
Then fainting down on eartli he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling monk. 

Witli fruitless labor Clara bound 

And strove to standi the gushing 

wound : 
The monk with unavailing cares 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
Ever, lie said, that, close and near, 
A lady's voice was in his ear. 
And tliat the priest he could not hear ; 

For that she ever sung. 
" In the lost battle borne down by the fly- 
ing. 



Where mingles icar's rattle with groans 
of the dying ! " 

So the notes rung. — 
" Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
Oh ! look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

Oh ! think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's jjarting seen. 

But never aught like this." 
Tlie war. that for a space did fail. 
Now trebly thundering swelled tlip 
gale, 

And " Stanley ! " was the cry. — 
A light on Marmion's visage s})read, 

And fired his glazing e3'e ; 
With dying hand above his head 
He shook the fragment of his blade. 

And shouted " Victory ! — 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanlej^ 

on ! " 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

By this, though deep the evening fell. 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots around their king. 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing. 

Where Huntley, and where HomeV — 
Oh ! for a blast of tliat dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,' 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blasts might warn tliem, not in 

vain, 
To quit the plunder of tlie slain 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side 
Afar the Royal Standard flies. 
And round it toils and lileeds and dies 

Our Caledonian pride ! 
In vain the wish — for far away. 
While spoil and havoc mark their wa}'. 
Near Sibyl's Cross the plundereis stray.— 
'* O lady," cried the monk, '• away ! " 

And placed her on her steed, 
And led her to the chapel fair 

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer. 
And at the dawn of morning there 
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 

But as they left the darkening heath 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
Tlie English shafts in volleys hailed. 
In headlong charge their horse assailed ; 



iS8 



BRITISH POETS 



Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons 

sweep 
To break tlie Scottish circle deep 

That fought around their king. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Tliough charging knights like whirl- 
winds go, 
Though billmen ply the ghastly blow. 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spearmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where liis comrade stood 

The instant that he fell. 
No thouglit was there of dastard flight ; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tiglit. 
Groom fought like noble, squire like 
kniglit, 

As fearlessly and well, 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
Then skilful Surre3''s sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 

And from the charge they chew. 
As mountain-waves from wasted lands 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Tlien did their loss his foemen know ; 
Tlieir king, their lords, their mightiest 

low. 
They melted from the field, as snow. 
When streams are swoln and south winds 
blow. 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash. 

While many a broken band 
Disordered through lier currents dash. 

To gain tlie Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale. 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song 
Shall many an age that wail prolong ; 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of tlie stern strife and carnage drear 

Of Flodden's fatal field. 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's S'pear 

And broken was her shield ! 

Day dawns upon the mountain's side. — 
There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride. 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one ; 
The sad survivors all are gone. — 
View' not tliat corpse inistrustfull}^ 
Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
Nor to j^on Border castle high 
Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 

Nor cherish hope in vain 
That, journeying far on foreign strand. 
The Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 



He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
Reckless of life, lie desperate fought, 

And fell on Floddeu plain : 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clenched within his manly hand. 

Beseemed the monarch slain. 
But oil ! how changed since yon blithe 

night ! — 
Gladly I turn me from the sight 
Unto my tale again. 

Short is my tale : — Fitz-Eustaoe' care 
A pierced and mangled bodj' bare 
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
And tliere. beneatli the southern aisle, 
A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair 
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. — 
Now vainly for its site you look ; 
"T was levelled wlien fanatic Brook 
The fair cathedi'al stormed and took. 
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 

Chad, 
A guerdon meet the spoiler had ! — 
There erst was martial ]\Iarmion found. 
His feet upon a couchant hound. 

His hands to heaven upraised ; 
And all around, on scutcheon rich. 
And tablet carved, and fretted niche. 

His arms and feats were blazed. 
And yet, though nil was carved so fair. 
And priests for Marmion breathed tlie 

prayer. 
The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
Followed his lord to Flodden plain, — 
One of those flowers whom plaintive laj' 
In Scotland mourns as " wede away : " 
Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied. 
And dragged him to its foot, and died 
Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
The spoilers stripped and gashed tlie 

slain. 
And thus their corpses were mista'en ; 
And thus in the proud baron's tomb 
The lowly woodsman took the room. 

Less easy task it were to show 

Lord J\Iarmion's nameless grave and low. 

They dug his grave e'en where he lay. 

But every mark is gone : 
Time's wasting hand lias done away 
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey, 

And broke her font of stone ; 
But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet still. 

Oft halts the stranger there. 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry ; 

And shepherd boys repair 






SCOTT 



159 



To seek tlie water-flag and rush. 
And rest tliem b}^ the hazel bush, 

And plait tlieir garhuids fair, 
Nor dream tiiey sit upon the grave 
That holds the bones of Marmion 

brave. — 
When thou shalt find tlie little hill, 
With thy heart commune and be still. 
If ever in temptation strong 
Thou left'st tlie right path for the 

wrong. 
If every devious step thus trod 
Still led thee further from the road. 
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
But say, '" He died a gallant knight. 
With sword in hand, for England's 

right." 

I do not rliyme to that dull elf 

Who cannot image to hiniself 

That all through Flodden's dismal niglit 

Wilton was foremost in the fight, 

That when brave Surrey's steed was 

slain 
'Twas Wilton mounted liim again ; 
'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed 
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood : 
Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, 
He was the living soul of all ; 
That, after fight, his faith made plain. 
He won his rank and lands again. 
And charged his old paternal shield. 
With bearings won on Flodden Field. 
Nor sing I to that simple maid 
To whom it must in terms be said 
That king and kinsmen did agree 
To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 
Who cannot, unless I relate. 
Paint to her mind the bridal's state.— 
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; 
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 
And Katherine's hand the stocking 

threw ; 
And afterwards, for many a day, 
That it was held enough to say. 
In blessing to a wedded pair, 
'■ Love they like Wilton and like Clare ! " 
November, ISOG— January, JSOS. 
February 23, 1808. 

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE 
O'ER 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not break- 
ing ; 
Dream of battled fields no more. 



Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall. 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armor's clang, or war-steed ciiamping, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the daybreak from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from t he sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
Guards nor warders challenge here. 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champ- 
ing. 
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest ! tliy chase is done ; 

While our slumbrous spells assail }'e, 
Dream not, with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying : 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 

How thy gallant steed laj^ dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; 
Think not of the rising sun. 
For at dawning to assail j^e 
Here no bugles sound reveille. 

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810. 

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN 
TRIUMPH ADVANCES ! 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad- 
vances ! 
Honored and blessed be the ever-green 
Pine ! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth lend it saj) anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back again. 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
ieroe ! '' 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain, 



i6o 



BRITISH POETS 



Blooming at Beltane, in winter to 
fade ; 
When tlie wliirlwind has stripped every 
leaf on the mountain. 
The more shall Clan -Alpine exult in 
her shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock. 
Proof to tlie tempest's sliock. 
Firmer lie roots him the ruder it blow : 
Mejiteitli and Breadalbane, then 
Eclio bis praise again. 
" Roderigli Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
ieroe I " 

Proudly our pibroch has tin-illed in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan 
replied : 
Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu. they are smok- 
ing in ruin. 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie 
dead on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid. 
Think of Clan-AliMne with fear and 

with woe : 
Lennox and Leven-glen 

Shake wben the}' liear again, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dliu, ho ! 
ieroe ! " 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
Higlilands ! 
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green 
Pine ! 
O that tbe rosebud that graces j'on is- 
lands 
Were wreathed in a garland around 
him to twine ! 
O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem 
Honored and blessed in their shadow 
might grow ! 
Loud should Clan- Alpine then 
Ring from her deepmost glen. 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
ieroe ! "' 

From The Lady of the Lake. 

CORONACH 

He is gone on the mountain. 

He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

Fiom the rain-drops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no clieering, 

To Duncan no mori-ow ! 



Tlie hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary. 
But tlie voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest. 
But our flower was in flushing. 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foraA', 

How sound is th}' slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain. 

Like the foam on tlie river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 

From The Lady of the Lake. 

HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! 

Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade de- 
scending ; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights 
her spark. 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 
Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain 
lending. 
And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strel sj-^ ; 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending. 
With distant echo from the fold and 
lea. 
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum 
of housing bee. 

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
Harp ! 
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble 
sway, 
And little reck I of the censure sharp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much have I owed thj' strains on life's 
long wa.y. 
Through secret woes the world has 
never known. 
When on the weary night dawned 
wearier day. 
And bitterer was the grief devoured 
alone. — 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! 
is thine own. 

Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow 
retire, 



SCOTT 



ibi 



Some spirit of the Air lias waked thy 
string ! 
T'is now a seraph bokl, with touch of 
fire, 
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic 
. wing. 

Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
dell; 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 
A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
And now, 't is silent all ! — Enchantress, 
fare thee well ! 
Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake. 

BRIGNALL BANKS 

During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote 
to Morritt : " There are two or three Songs, and 
particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, 
which I trust you will like — because, entre nous, 
I like them myself One of them is a little dash- 
ing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-a- 
Dale." 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands tliere 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily : 
" O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen." 

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend Avith 
me. 

To leave botli tower and town. 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read. 

As read full well you may, 
Tlien to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 

As blithe as Queen of May." 
Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
r d rather rove wnth Edmund there 

Tlian reign our English queen. 

" I read you, by your bugle horn, 

And by j^our palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
■' A ranger, lady, winds liis horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night." 
II 



Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there. 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

" With burnished brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon. 

That lists the tuck of drum." 
'• I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum. 

My comrades take the spear. 
And O, though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

•' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die ; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough. 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green. 
And }"ou may gather garlands there 

Would grace a svimmer queen.'' 

From Rokeby, 1813. 

ALLEN- A-D ALE 

ALLRN-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen a-Dale has no fleece for the spin- 
ning, 
Yet Allen -a-Dale has red gold for the 

winning. 
Come, read me my riddle ! come, heark- 
en my tale ! 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale, 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in 
pride. 

And he view^s his domains upon Arkin- 
dale side. 

The mere for his net and the land for 
his game. 

The chase for the wild and the park for 
the tame : 

Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of 
the vale 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen- 
a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
Though his spur be as sharp and his 
blade be as bright ; 



l62 



BRITISH POETS 



Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word ; 
And the Ijest of our nobles his bonnet 

will vail, 
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 
The mother, she asked of his household 

and home : 
"Though the castle of Richmond stand 

fair on the hill. 
My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows 

gallanter still ; 
'Tis the blvie vault of heaven, with its 

crescent so pale 
And with all its bright spangles ! " said 

Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel and the mother 
was stone ; 

They lifted the latch and they bade him 
be gone ; 

But loud on the morrow their wail and 
their cry : 

He had laughed on the lass with his 
bonny black eye, 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale. 

And the youth it was told by was Allen- 
a-dale ! 

From Rokeby, 1813. 

HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY 

Hie away, hie awaj-, 
Over bank and over brae, 
Wiiere the copsewood is tiie greenest. 
Where tlie fountains glisten sheenest, 
Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest. 
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it. 
Where the fairy latest trips it : 

Hie to haunts right seldom seen. 
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green. 
Over bank and over brae, 
Hie away, hie away. 

From Waverley, 1814. 

TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope and fear and peace and strife, 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning. 
And the infant's life beginning, 



Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending I 

Passions wild and follies vain, 
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; 
Doubt and jealousy and fear, • 

In the magic dance appear. 

Now they wax and now they dwindle. 
Whirling with the whirling spindle, 
Twast ye, twine ye ! even so 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 

From Guy Mannering, 1815. 

WASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE 
STAY 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
Wrestling tlius with earth and clay ? 
From the body pass away ; — 

Hark ! the mass is singing. 

From thee doff thy mortal weed, 
Mary Mother be thy speed, 
Saints to help thee at thy need ; — 
Hark ! the knell is ringing. 

Fear not snow-drift driving fast, 
Sleet or hail or levin blast ; 
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
And the sleep be on thee cast 

That shall ne'er know waking. 

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, 
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, 
Daj' is near the breaking. 
From G^ly Mannering. 

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazeldean. 

" Now let this wilfu' grief be done. 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha'. 

His sword in battle keen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazeldean. 



SCOTT 



163 



*' A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed 
hawk. 
Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you, the foremost o' tliem a', 

Shall ride our forest queen." — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
For Jock o' Hazeldean. 

Tlie kirk was decked at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the 
bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baitli by bower a)id 
ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border and awa' 

Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean. 1816. 

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibrocli of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to tlie summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and petinon 

Are at Inverlocliy. 
Come every hill-plaid and 

True heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended tlie herd. 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, 

The bride at th(> altar : 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and l)arges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the Avinds come when 

Forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 



Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dim, 

Knell for the onset ! 1816. 

TIME 

" Why sit'st thou by that ruined hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 

Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it passed away ? " 

" Know'st thou not me?" the Deep 
Voice cried : 

" So long enjoyed, so oft misused — 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 

Desired, neglected, and accused ! 

" Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
Man and his marvels pass away ! 

And changing empires wane and wax. 
Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

"Redeem mine hours — the space is 
brief — 
While in my glass the sand-grains 
shiver. 
And measureless thy joy or grief, 
When Time and thou shalt part for- 
ever ! " 

From The Antiquary, 1816. 

CAVALIER SONG 

AxD what though winter will pinch 
severe 
Through locks of gray and a cloak 
that 's old. 
Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier. 
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 

For time will rust the brightest blade, 
And years will break the strongest 
bow "; 
Was never wight so starkly made. 
But time and years would overthrow. 
From Old Mortality, 1816. 

CLARION 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 

To all the sensual world proclaim, 
One crowded hour of glorious life 

Is worth an age without a nanie. 
From Old Mortality, 1816. 



164 



BRITISH POETS 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 
HILL 

"It was while struggling with such languor, 
ou one lovely evening of this autumn [1H17J, 
that he composed the following beautiful verses. 
They mark tlie very spot of their birth,— namely, 
the then naked height overhanging the northern 
side of the tiauldshields Loch, from which Mel- 
rose Abbey to the eastward, anil the hills of Et- 
trick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible 
over a wide range of rich woodland,— all the 
work of the poet's hand." Lockhart's Life of 
Scott, Chapter 39. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet ; 
The westland wind is liush and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once it 
bore, 
Though evening witli her ricliest dye 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 

With listless look along the plain 

I see Tweed's .silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree — 
Are they still such as once they were, 

Or is the dreary change in me ? 

Alas ! the warped and broken board. 

How can it bear tlie jjainter's dye ? 
The harp of strained and tuneless chord. 

How to the minstrers skill reply ? 
To acliing eyes each landscape lowers. 

To feverish pulse each gale blows 
chill ; 
And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 

1817. 

PROUD MAISIE 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking .so early ; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush. 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird, • 

When shall I miarry me ? " 
" Wlien six braw gentlemen 

Kirk ward shall carry ye." 

" Who makes the bridal bed. 

Birdie, say truly ? " 
" The gray-headed .sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 



" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 

Shall light thee steady. 
Tlie owl from the steeple .sing, 

'Welcome, proud lady.'" 

From The Heart of Midlothian, 1818. 

TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE 

True-love, an thou be true. 

Thou hast ane kittle part to play. 

For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou 
Maun strive for many a day. 

I've kend by mony a friend's tale. 
Far better by this heart of mine, 

Wliat time and change of fancy avail', 
A true love-knot to untwine. 

From The Bride of Lammermoo-, 1819. 

REBECCA' S HYMN 

When Israel of the Lord beloved 

Out from the land of bondage came. 
Her fathers' God before lier moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonislied lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By niglit, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of prai.se. 

And trump and timbrel answered 
keen. 
And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 

Witli priest's and warrior's voice* be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze. 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
Onr fathers woidd not know Thy ways. 

And Thou hast left tlieni to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen. 

When briglitly shines the prosperous 
day. 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To teni|)er the deceitful ray ! 
And O, when stoops on Judah's path 

In sliade and storm the fretjuent 
night. 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a sliining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 

No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn, 

But Tliou hast .said, Tlie blood of goat, 
Tlie flesh of rams I will not prize ; 



SCOTT 



165 



A contrite heuit, a humble thought, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

From IvanJioe, 1818. 

BORDER BALLAD 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward 

in order ? 

Blarch, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for 

the border. 

Many a banner spread, 
Flutters al)o\ e your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story, 
Mount and make ready tlien, 
Sons of the mountain glen. 
Fight for the Queen and our okl Scot- 
tish glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels 
are grazing. 
Come from the glen of the buck and 
the roe ; 
Come to tlie crag where the beacon is 
blazing. 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding. 
War-steeds are bounding. 
Stand to your arms and march in good 
order ; 

England shall many a dav 
Tell of the bloody fray, 
When tlie Blue Bonnets came over the 
the Border. 

From TJic Monastery, 1820. 

LIFE 

Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now ; 

Darker lip and darker brow. 

Statelier step, more iiensive mien, 

In thy face and gait are seen : 

Thou must now brook midnight 

watches. 
Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 
For the gambol and the jest 
Thou wert wont to love tlie best, 
Graver follies must thou follow. 
But as senseless, false, and hollow. 

From The Abbot, 1820. 

COUNTY GUY 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 



The lark his lay who thrilled all day 
Sits hushed his partner nigh : 

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 
But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the 
shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To beauty shy by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 
And high and low the influence know — 

But wiiere is County Guy ? 

From Quentiu Duncard, 1823. 

BONNY DUNDEE 

To the liOrds of Convention 't was Clav- 

er"se who sp'oke, 
" Ere the King's crown shall fall there 

are crowns to be broke ; 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor 

and me. 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up 

my can. 
Come saddle your horses and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the West Port and let 

me gang free. 
And it 's room for the bonnets of 
Bonny Dundee ! " 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street, 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are beat ; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, " Just 

e'en let him be. 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 

of Dundee." 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of 

the Bow, 
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 

pow ; 
But the young plants of grace they 

looked couthie and slee. 
Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou 

Bonny Dundee ! 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

With sour-featured W^higs the Grass- 
market was crammed, 

As if half the West had set tryst to be 
hanged ; 



i66 



BRITISH POETS 



There was spite in each look, there was 

fear in each e'e, 
As they watched for the bonnets of 

Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits 
and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cava- 
liers ; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the 
causeway was free. 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud 

Castle x'ock. 
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 

spoke ; 
" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 

twa words or three. 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny 

Dundee." 
Come fill up ray cup, etc. 

The Gordon demands of him which way 

he goes — 
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of 

Montrose ! 
Your Grace in short space shall hear 

tidings of me. 
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

"There are liills beyond Pentland and 
lands beyond Fortli, 

If there's lords in the Lowlands, tliere's 
chiefs in tlie North ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three, 

Will ciy hoigh /• for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

" There's brass on the target of barkened 
bull-hide ; 

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 
beside ; 

The brass shall be burnislied, the steel 
sliall flash free. 

At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 



"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 

fox ; 
And tremble, false Wliigs, in the midst 

of your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me ! " 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He waved his proud liand and the 

trumpets were blown. 
The kettle-drums clashed and the horse- 
men rode on. 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Cler- 

miston's lee 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up 

ni)"^ can. 
Come saddlp the horses and call up 

the men. 
Come open your gates and let me 

gae free. 
For its vip witli the bonnets of 
Bonny Dundee ! 

December, lS-25. 1830. 

HERE'S A HEALTH TO KING 
CHARLES 

Bring tlie bowl wliich you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim ; 
'T is to him we love most. 

And to all who love liim. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt ye, base carles ! 
Were there death in the cup. 

Here's a health to King Cliarles. 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

iJnaided, unknown. 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own ; 
Tliough 't is under our breatli, 

Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here's to honor and faith. 

And a health to King Charles I 

Let such honors abound 

As tlie time can afford, 
The knee on the ground. 

And tiie hand on the sword ; 
But the time sliall come round 

When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
Tlie loud trumpet shall sound. 

Here's a healtli to King Charles ! 

From Woodstock, 1836. 



BYRON 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

* *The standard edition is that published by Murray, London, 1898- 
1904, in 13 voUimes: Letters and Journals, 6 volumes, edited by R. E. 
Prothero ; Poetical Works, 7 volumes, edited by E. II. Coleridge. 

Poetical Works, Riverside Edition, 5 volumes, Houghton & Mifflin. 
Poetical Works, Oxford Edition, 1 volume. * Poetical Works, Cambridge 
Edition, edited by Paul E, More (the best one- volume edition). 

Biography 

* Moore (Thomas), The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with 
Notices of his Life, 1830, (the standard biography, though unreliable on 
many points). Galt (John), Life of Lord Byron, 1830 (based in part on 
Moore's Life). Moistdot (Armand), Histoire de la Vie et des Ecrits de Lord 
Byron, Paris, 1860. Lescure (Adolphe), Lord Byron, Histoire d'un Homme, 
Paris, 1866. Elze (Karl), Lord Byron, Berlin, 1870 ; English translation, 
London, 1872. Castelar (Emilio), Vida de Lord Byron, Madrid, 1873 ; 
English translation, London, 1875. * Nichol (John), Byron (English 
Men of Letters Series), 1880 (the best brief biography). Jeaffrkson 
(J. C), The Real Lord Byron, 1883. Noel (Roden), Lord Byron (Great 
Writers Series), 1887. Ackermann (Richard), Lord Byron, sein Leben, 
seine Werke, Heidelberg, 1901. 

Personal Reminiscences and Early. Criticism 

Medwin (Thomas), Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824. Dallas 
(R. C), Recollections of Lord Byron, from 1808 to 1814, 1824. Gamba 
(Pietro), A Narrative of Lord Byron's Last Journey to Greece, 1825. 
Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries, 1828. Hunt 
(Leigh), Autobiography. Grimm (Hermann), Fiinfzehn Essays : Lord 
Byron und Leigh Hunt. 

Macaulay (T. B.), Edinburgh Review, 1831 : Moore's Life of Byron. 
Also in his Essays. Disraeli (B.), Venetia (Portrait of Byron). Jeffrey 
(Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review : No. 38, Art. 10, Childe Harold ; No. 
42, Art. 2, The Giaour ; No. 45, Art. 9, The Corsair and Bride of Abydos ; 

167 



1 68 BRITISH POETS 

No. 54, Art. 1, Byron's Poetry ; No. 56, Art. 7, Manfred ; No. 58, Art. 2, 
Beppo ; No. 70, Art. 1, Marino Faliero ; No. 72, Art. 5, Byron's Tragedies. 
Also in his Critical Essays. Southey (R.), Essays, 1832. De QirmoEY 
(T.), Reminiscences. Trelawney (E. J.), Recollections of Shelley and 
Byron, 1858. Guiccioli (Countess), Lord Byron juge par les Temoins de 
sa Vie, Paris, 1868 ; English translation by Jerningham — My Recollec- 
tions of Lord Byron and Those of Eye- Witnesses of His Life — London, 
1869. Pkocter (B. W.), Autobiography. Hugo (V.), Litterature et 
Philosophic, 1834. 

Later Criticism, etc. 

^Arxold (M.), Essays in Criticism. Barbey D'Aurevilly (Jules), 
Litterature etrangere. Blaze de Bury (Henri j. Tableaux Romantiques 
de Litterature et d'Art. Braxdes (G. M. C), Shelley und Lord Byron : 
Zwei litterarische Charakterbilder, * Braxdes (G. M. C), Die Haupt- 
stronmngen in der Litteratur des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, Vol. IV. 
Chestertox (G. K.), Twelve Tjq^es : The Optimism of Byron. Darmes- 
teter (James), Essais de Litterature anglaise. Dowdex (Edward), The 
French Revolution and English Literature : Essay VI. Dowdex (Ed- 
ward), Studies in Literature : French Revolution and Literature. Hut- 
Tox (R. H.), Essays in Literary Criticism. KiX(iSLEY (Charles), Works : 
Thoughts on Shelley and Byron. Loforte-Roxdi (Andrea), Nelle Let- 
terature straniere. Mazzixi (G.), Essays. * IMore (Paul E.), Atlantic 
Monthly, Dec, 1898 : The Wholesome Revival of Byron. Noel (R.), 
Essays on Poetry and Poets : Lord Byron and His Times. * Morley 
(John), Miscellanies, Vol. I. Ossoli (Margaret F.), Art, Literature and 
the Drama. Rossetti (W. M.) Lives of Famous Poets. * Schmidt 
(Julian), Portraits aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert: Lord Byron. 
SwixBURXE (A. C), Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. * Swixburxe 
(A. C), Essays and Studies. * Symoxds (J. A.), In Ward's English Poets, 
Vol. IV. * Taixe (H.), History of English Literature, Vol. IV. * Trext 
(W. P.), Authority of Criticism : The Byron Revival. * Watts-Duxtox 
(T.), In Chambers' New Cyclopaedia of English Literature. * Woodberry 
(G. E.), Makers of Literature. 

Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Caixe (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criti- 
cism. Coukthope (William J.), Liberal 3Iovement in English Literature. 
Dawsox (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey (J.), Modern 
English Poets. Dixox (W. M.), English Poetry. Friswell (J. H.), Es- 
says on English Writers. Haxcock (A. E.), French Revolution and the 
English Poets. Hayward (A.), Sketches of Eminent Statesmen and 
Writers, with other Essays. Mexgix (Urbain), L'ltalie des Romantiques. 
MixTO (W.), The Georgian Era. Moxti (Giulio), Studi Critici. Moir 
(D. M.), Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-Century, 
1851. Nadal (E. S.), Essays at Home. Nisard (Desire), Portraits et 
Etudes d'Histoire litteraire. Reed (H.), Lectures on the British Poets. 
Sauxders (F.), Famous Books. Schuyler (Eugene), Italian Influences. 



BYRON 169 

Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. Street (J. S.), Boole of 
Essays. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Tucker- 
MAX (Henry T.), Notes on the Poets. 

Bvron's Influence ox the Continent 

See Brandes, Elze, Castelar, Taine, Mengin, Monti, Nisard, Mon- 
dot, Lesoure, Hugo, etc., above ; and Lamartine and Gautier, below. 

AcKERMANN (Richai'd), Lord Byron : sein Leben, seine Werke, sein 
Einfluss auf die Deutsche Litteratur. Clark (W. J.), Byron und die Ro- 
niantische Periode in Frankreich (Inaugural Dissertation). Dumas, 
Memoires, Vol. IX, Chap. 6, 7 and 8. * Goethe, Conversations with 
Eckermann. Hohenhauskn (E. P. A.), Rousseau, Gothe, Byron, ein 
Kritisch-literarischer Umriss aus Ethischchristlichem Standpunkt. Lam- 
artine, Le dernier Chant de Childe Harold. Lorenzo y d'AvoT (Man- 
uel), Shakespere, Lord Byron, y Chateaubriand, como modelos de la Ju- 
ventud Literaria. Melchior (Felix), Heinrich Heine's Verhaltnis zu 
Lord Byron. Muoni (Guido), La Fania del Byron, e il Byronismo in Italia. 
MussET (A. de). La Coupe et les Levres (Dedicace), Lettre a Lamartine, 
Namouna, etc. Pichot, (A.), Essai sur la Vie, le Caractere, et le Genie de 
Lord Byron. Pons (Gaspard de), Annales romantiques, 1826: Bona- 
parte et Byron. Sainte-Beuve, Chateaubriand et son Groupe litteraire, 
Vol. I., Chap. 15. Sand (George), Histoire de ma Vie, Vol. III. Stend- 
hal, Racine et Shakespeare. Schmidt (G. B. O.), Rousseau und Byron : 
Ein Beitrag zur Vergleichenden Litteratur-Geschichte des Revolutions- 
zeitalters. Weddigen (Friedrich H. O.), Lord Byron's Einfluss auf die 
Europaischen Litteraturen der Neuzeit. 

Tributes in Verse, etc. 

Lamartine, Meditations poetiques, 1820 : L'Homme, a Lord Byron. 
Shelley, Julian and Maddalo, 1818; Fragment to Byron, 1818; Sonnet 
to Byron, 1821. Keats, Sonnet to Byron. Gautier, Poesies, Vol. I. 
LAN(i, Letters to Dead Authors. Watson (William), Epigrams : Byron 
the Voluptuary. 

Bibliography 

* Coleridge (E. II.), in Vol. VII. of his edition of the Poetical Works. 
Anderson (J. P.), Appendix to Noel's Life of Byron. 



BYRON 



LACHIN Y GAIR 

Away, ye gaj' landscapes, ye gardens 
of roses ! 
In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore nie the rocks, where the snow- 
flake reposes. 
Though still they are sacred to freedom 
and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy moun- 
tains, 
Round their white summits though 
elements war ; 
Tliough cataracts foam 'stead of smooth- 
flowing fovmtains, 
I sigli for the valley of dark Loch na 
Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy 
wander'd ; 
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was 
the plaid ; 
On cliieftains long perish'd my memorj' 
ponder'd, 
As daily I strode throvigh the pine- 
cover'd glade ; 
I sought not my home till the day's 
dying glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright 
polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional 
story, 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch 
na Garr. 

"Shades of the dead ! have I not heard 
your voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
And rides on the wind, o'er his own 
Highland vale. 
Round TjOcIi na Garr while the stormy 
mist gathers. 
Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my 
fathers ; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark 
Loch na Garr. 



" lU-starr'd, though brave, did no visions 
foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your 
cause ? " 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
Victory crown'd not your fall with 
applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthly 
slumber. 
You rest with your clan in the caves of 
Brae mar ; 
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud 
number. 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch 
na Garr. 

Years have roU'd on, Lochna Garr, since 
I left you. 
Years must elapse ere I tread you 
again : 
Nature of verdure and fiow'rs has bereft 
you, 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's 
plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and 
domestic 
To one who has roved o'er the moun- 
tains afar : 
Oh for the crags that are wild and 
majestic ! 
The steep frowning glories of dark 
Loch na Garr. 1807.1 

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 

Zw)7 jxov, aaq ayanCt 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
Or, since that has left mj^ breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest 1 
Hear my vow before I go, 
7iurj finv, (Taf ayanu. 

'The dates for Byron's poems are made up 
chiefly from the very full accounts of their writ- 
ing and publication given in the notes to E. H. 
Coleridge's splendid edition. 



170 



BYRON 



171 



By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd b}' each ^gean wind ; 
By those lids wliose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
'Lidii fioh, aaq dyani). 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers tliat tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
'Ai',)!/ noil, (T«f 11} mro). 

Maid (jf Alliens ! I am gone: 

Think of me, sweet! wlien alone. 

Tliougli I fly to Istambol, 

Athens liolds my heart and soul ; 

Can I cease to love tliee ? No ! 

'/j(',)r/ fKiii, craf ayano). ISIO. 1812. 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
AND FAIR 

" Heu, qiianto minus est cum reliquis vorsari 
quain tui meminisse ! " 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birtli ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
Thougli Earth received them in her bed 
And o'er the spot tlie crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
Tliere is aii eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask wliere tliou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
Tliere flowers or weedsat vvill may grow, 

So 1 behold them not : 
It is enough for me to jiiove 
That what I loved, and lung must love, 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
' Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the 
past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love whei'e Death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were Avorse, thou c^anst not 

see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 



The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine ; 
The sun that cheers, the storm that 
lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine. 
That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
I might have watch'd through long 
decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatcliM 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away ; 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering leaf by leaf. 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade ; 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd. 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I coiild weep. 

My tears might well be shed. 

To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thj" bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uiihold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Tliougli thou hast left me free, 
Tlic loveliest things that still remain. 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me. 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught except its living years. 

February, ISI'2. 1812. 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 
InsileiK^e and tears, 

Half broken-hearted 
To sever for years, 



172 



BRITISH POETS 



Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Tliy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame : 
I iiear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder conies o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deejily to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



1816. 
^ THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

A TURKISH TALE 

" Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." — Burns. 

CANTO THE FIRST 

Know ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle 
Ai-e emblems of deeds that are done in 

their clime ? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love 

of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to 

crime ! 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the 

beams ever shine : 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, op- 

press'd witli perfume. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gill in her 

bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of 

fruit, 



And the voice of the nightingale never 
is mute : 

Where the tints of the earth, and the 
hues of the sky. 

In color though varied, in beauty may 
vie. 

And the purple of ocean is deepest in 
dye ; 

Where the virgins are soft as the ro.ses 
they twine. 

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 

'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land 
of the Sun — 

Can he smile on such deeds as his chil- 
dren have done ? 

Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' fare- 
well 

Are the hearts which they bear, and the 
tales which they tell. 

Begirt with manj^ a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave. 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 

Deep tliought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
Tlie mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride. 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

" Let the chamber be clear'd." — The 

train disappearVl. — 
" Now call me the chief of the Haram 

guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son. 
And the Nubian awaiting the sire's 

award. 
" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
Are pass'd be3'()nd tlie outer gate, 
(Woe to tlie head whose ej'e beheld 
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 
Hence, lead 1113^ daughter from her 

tower ; 
Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
Yet not to her repeat my tliought ; 
By me alone be dutj' taught ! " 

'• Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Tlien to tlie tower had ta'en his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd and gently spake. 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire. 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 



BYRON 



173 



" Father ! for fear that thou sliouldst 

chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, tiien fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone. 

That — let the old and weary slee]3— 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
Witli none to listen and reply 
To thouglits with which my heart beat 

high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood. 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our 

own ! 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
Witli Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee 

flew ; 
But tliere Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Fatlier, rage not — nor forget 
Tliat none can pierce tliat secret bovver 
But those who watch the woman's 
tower." 

" Son of a slave'' — the Pacha said — 
" From unbelieving mother bred. 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Avight til at beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the 
bow. 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
]\Iust pore where babbling waters flow. 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless ej^es so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
Nay, tamely view old Stamljol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff" — not the brand. 
But, Harovin ! — to my daughter speed ! 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Ihou see'st yon bow — it hath a string ! " 



No sound fromSelim's lip was heard. 

At least that naet old Giafflr's ear. 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

"Son of a slave! — rei^roacli'd with 
fear ! 

Tliose gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — -and icko my sire ? " 

Thus held his tlioiights tlieir dark 
career ; 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 
Flash forth, tlien faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion there begun : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply? 
I mai'k thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
But if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I'd joj- to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance 
And proudly to his sii'e's was raised, 

Till Giaffir"s quail'd and shrunk as- 
kance — 
And why — lie felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward bo}^ 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth. 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope. 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — -nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no 

more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear ; 
She is the ofi'spring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear. 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Sucli to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can tliey waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for tliine. 

Who blest thy birth and bless thee 
now." 



174 



BRITISH POETS 



Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
When on that dread yet lovely serpent 

smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon 

her mind — 
But once beguil'd — and ever more be- 
guiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent 

vision 
To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber 

given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams 

Elysian, 
And paints the lost on Earth revived 

in Heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which Childhood 

wafts above 
Was she — tlie daughter of that rude old 

Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not 

of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words 

essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly 

ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing 

sight 
Faints into dimness with its own de- 
light, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart 

confess 
The might, the majesty of Loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika, such around her 

shone 
Tlie nameless charms unmark'd by her 

alone — 
The liglit of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music breathing from 

her face. 
The heart whose softness harmonized 

the whole. 
And oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 

Across her gently budding breast ; 
At one kind word those arms extending 
To clas]) the neck of him who blest 
His cliild caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaflfir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His lieart tliough stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain'd her to that lieart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
How dear this very day must tell, 



When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well. 
To bid thee with another dwell : 
Another ! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of Ijlood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 
Unclianged, unchangeable hath .stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can kee]i their lands. 
Enough that he wJio comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I wovild not have thee wed a boj'. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and mj' united pou er 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now tliou know'st thy father's will : 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'T was mine to teach obedience still — 
The way to love, thy lord may show." 

In silence bow'd th« virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fiU'd with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed. 
And changed lier cheek from pale to 
red. 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows s|)ed. 

What could such be but maiden tears 'i 
So briglit the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it drj' ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wisli it less ! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his 
steed, 

Resigti'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque, 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With Maugrabee and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took. 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram"s mass}^ doors. 

His head was leant upon his hand. 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue 
water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the Avi riding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in tlie game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt. 



BYRON 



175 



Witli sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor inark'd the javelin-darting ci'owd 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — 
He thought but of old Giaftir's 
daughter ! 

No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed lie through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. 
But little from his aspect learn'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
"How strange he thus should turn 

away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Nor thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through tlie 
room, 
And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 
She snatch'd the urn wherein was 
mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odoi's o'er 
The pictured roof and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering 

vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd. 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen j-et ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
*' He loved them once : may touch them 
yet. 
If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly brea- 
thed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wrea- 
thed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad. 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope liis alter.'d lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

" What ! not i-eceive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 



And know'st thou not who loves thee 
best? 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or f earest ? 
Come, lay tliy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must 

fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern. 
But this from thee had yet to learn : 
Too well I know lie loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's \Aan — 
Tliis kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, — 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step, admit her vow, — 
Without thy free consent, command. 
The Sultan should not have mj'^ hand! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
Ah ! were I several from thy side. 
Where were thy friend — and who my 

guide ? 
Years have not seen, Time shall not see. 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Ev'n Azrael, from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, sliall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 

He lived, he breatlied, he moved, he felt; 
He raised the maid from where she 

knelt ; 
His trance was gone, his keen eye shone 
W^itli thoughts that long in darkness 

dwelt : 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that 

melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows. 
When it ruslies reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Throvigh the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumiieVs sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife. 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
'• Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life 
resign ; 



176 



BRITISH POETS 



Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
Though sworn by one, liath bound us 

both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than 

one : 
But blench not thou — tliy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round tliy foreliead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar. 
This morning clouds upon me lower'd. 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd. 
And Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave ; 
The son of his neglected slave. 
Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave. 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — 5^et, thanks to thee, 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow- 
Be only known to us as now. 
I know tiie wretch who dares demand 
From Giaffir tliy reluctant hand ; 
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
Holds not a Musselim's control : 
Was he not bred in Egripo ? 
A viler race let Israel show ! 
But let that jiass — to none be told 
Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
I've partisans for peril's day : 
Think not I am what I ajipear ; 
I've arms, and friends, and vengeance 

near." 

" Tliink not thou art what thou appearst ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself es- 
tranged. 
jMy love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but b}' day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy clieek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
Like this — and this — no more tl)an this ; 
For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own liave nearly cauglit the same. 

At least I feel my cheek, too. blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth. 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 



And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eje. 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To tliese alone my thoughts aspire .:- 
More (^an I do ? or thou require 'i 
But, Selim, tliou must answer why 
We need so mucli of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 
But be it, since thousay'st 'tis well ; 
Yet what tliou mean'st by ' arms ' and 

' friends,' 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted tliee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in 
me. 
To be wliat I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than tliee, companion of her bower, 

Tlie partner of her infancy ? 
These clierish'd tlioughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
Wliat change is wrought to make me 
shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till 
now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, re])ine: 
No ! happier made by that deci-ee, 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus comijell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee liath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while Ivirking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time. 

Nor leave me tluis to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 
My fatlier leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet Ins eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

" Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
Betalve thee — Giaffir I can greet ! 
And now with him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 



BYRON 



177 



There's fearful news from Danube's 

banks, 
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 
For which the Giaour may give him 

thanks ! 
Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Sucli costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, wlien the twilight' drum 
Hath warn'd the troops to food and 
sleep, 
Unto th}^ cell will Selim come : 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth. I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may 

feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 
" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this " 

" Delay not thou : 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my jiurpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I ajjpear." 

CANTO THE SECOND 

The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on tliat niglit of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave. 

The lonely hope of Sestos' davigliter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Thougli^'ising gale, and breaking foam. 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him 

liome ; 
And clovids aloft and tides below. 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
He could not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear bvit rang witli Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
Tliat tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as 
true. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darklj^ heaving to the main ; 
12 



And Night's descending shadows hide 
That field with blood bedew'd in 
vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 

The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
All — save immortal dreams that could 

beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
These feet have press'd the sacred 
shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath 

borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 
Thine own " broad Hellespont " still 
dashes, 
Be long mj' lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
Tliat moon, which shone on his high 

theme : 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round, 
By nations raised, by monarchscrown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how nar- 
row ! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
But Thou— thy very dust is gone ! 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
The swain, and chase the boatman's 

fear ; 
Till then — no beacon on the cliff 
INIay shape the course of struggling skiff ; 
The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
All, one by one, have died away ; 
The only lamp of this lone hour 
Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of anrber. 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ? ) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, 



178 



BRITISH POETS 



Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the 

next ; 
And by her comboloio lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute. 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of Cliina's mould ; 
The ricliest work of Iran's loom. 
And Sheeraz, tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
But yet it hath an air of gloom 
She, of this Peri cell tlie sprite. 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a 
night ? 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear. 
To guard from winds of heaven the 
breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
With cautious steps the thicket thread- 
ing, 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

Tlie gust its lioUow meanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat. 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And thougli her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side ? 

How teach lier tender lips to chide ? 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlai'ged by art. 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd ajDart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd wliat Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Propliet had disdain'd to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd slie, could lie long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear witli him could dwell ? 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within tlie 

grot : 
It might be only that the night 
Disguised things seen by better liglit : 
That brazen lamp but dimly tlirew 
A ray of no celestial hue ; 
But in a nook within the cell 



Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

Tliat did not seem to hold sherbet. 

Wliat may this mean ? she turn'd to see 

Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? " 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore. 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 
Wreathed lightly round, his temples 
wore : 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthj^ of a diadem. 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
Tlie cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote ; 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to liis breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and 

bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.^ 

" I said I was not Avhat I seem'd ; 

And now thou see'st my words were 
true : 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young hearl^I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first— Oh ! never wed another — 
Z.uleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 

" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 
God ! am I left alone on earth 

To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 
That saw my solitary birtli ? 

Oil ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 

But know me all I was before, 

^ A Turkisli sailor. 



BYRON 



179 



Tliy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Tliou led'st me iiere perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to tliee ! 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Griaffir alway seem'd thy foe ; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's cliild, 
For whom thou wertcontemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave ! " 

" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's 
balm. 
So may the Koran verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade. 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oatli ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

Tliat Selim late was deem'd to thee : 
That brother wrought a brotlier's fall. 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And luU'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; 
He watched me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his 
chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more I'emain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

" How first their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foas, 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giafiir's hate ; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me 
free. 



" When Paswan, after years of strife. 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widdin's walls too proudly sate. 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command, 
Each brother led a sej^arate band ; 
They gave their horse-tails ^ to the wind, 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post as- 
sign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ! the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugged and given, 
With venoni subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika. doubt. 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not wliat in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors were obtain'd 
By him a brother's mvirder stain'd ; 
'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
Wouldst question whence ? Survey the 

waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repaj^ his broiling brow ! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 
He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
Nor I forgive a fatlier's blood. 

"Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true ; 
To these sliould I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few ; 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew. 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 



1 " Horse-tail," the standard of a pacha. 

(Bi/ron.) 



i8o 



BRITISH POETS 



He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
And held that post in his Serai 
Wiiich holds lie here — he saw him die ; 

But what could single slavery do ? 

Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 

Or sa%'e his son from such a fate ? 

He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 

Proud Giaffir in higli triumph sate. 

He led me lielpless to his gate, 
And not in vain it seems essay'd 
To save the life for which he pray'd. 

The knowledge of my birth secured 
From all and each, bnt most from me ; 

Thus Giaffir 's safety was insured. 
Removed he too from Roumelie 

To this our Asiatic side, 

Far from ovir seats bj' Danube's tide. 
With none but Haroun, wlio retains 

Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 
A tyrant's secrets are but cliains. 

From which the captive gladly steals, 

And this and more to me reveals : 

Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 

Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue th}"^ softness wounds. 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn. 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighteel vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their 
swoids ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more 

pale : 
Those arms thou see'st my band have 

brought. 
The hands that wield are not remote : 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quaflf'd, they ne'er repine : 
Our prophet might forgive tlie slaves : 

They're only infidels in wine. 

" What could I be? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wisli to roam ; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft— 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone. 

And pent me here untried — unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 



By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 
While thou — wliose softness long en- 
dear 'd, 
Tliough it unmann'd me, still had 

cheer "d — 
To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
Awaited'st there the field's event. 
Haroun, who saw iwy spirit pining 
Beneath inaction's sluggisli yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resign- 
ing, 
My thraldom for a season broke. 
On promise to return before 
The day wlien Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Skj', 
As if my spirit pierced tliem thi-ough, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was 
mine ! 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me fi'om tliis idle shore ; 
I long'd to see tlie isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw tliem all : 

But when and where I join'd the 
crew. 
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

" 'T is true, they are a lawless brood. 
But rougli in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race. 
With tliem hath found — may find a 

place ; 
But open speech, and ready hand. 
Obedience to their cliief's command ; 
A soul for every enterprise. 
That never sees withterrors eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all. 
And vengeance vow'd for those wlio fall. 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
But cliiefly to my council call 

Tlie wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higlier thoughts aspire. 

The last of Lambro's patriots there 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 



BYRON 



i8i 



On visionary sclienies debate, 
To snatch the Ra^'ahs from tlieir fate. 
So let them ease tlieir hearts witli prate 
Of equal rights, vvliich man ne'er knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay I let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam 
Or only know on laud the Tartar's home ! 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea. 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale. 
Bound wliere thou wilt, my barb ! or 

glide, my prow ! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer. 

Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my 

bark ; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine 

ark! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds oi 

strife. 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of 

life! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds 

aw;iy. 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest— as the ^luezzin's strain from Mec- 
ca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his 

call : 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 
That steals the trembling tear of si^eecli- 

less praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. 
Shall sound each tone tliy long-loved 

voice endears. 
For thee in tiiose bright isles is built a 

bower 
Blooming as Aden in its e;irliest hoTir. 
A thousand swords, witli Selim's heart 

and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy 

command ! 
Girt b}"^ my band, Zuleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my 

bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joj\slike 

tliese : 
Not blind to fate. I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils — l)ut one only love ! 
Yet well my toils shall tliat fond brejist 

repay. 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends 

betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours 

of ill, 
Siiould all be changed, to find theefaitii- 

ful still ! 



Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly- 
shown ; 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To soothe each sorrow: share in each de- 
light. 

Blend every thought, do all — but dis- 
unite ! 

Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to 
guide ; 

Friends to each other, foes to aught be- 
side : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his con- 
quests cease ! 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or 
strengtli. 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's 
lengtli : 

Power swa.ys but by division — her re- 
source 

The blest alternative of f laud or force ! 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may- 
come 

Wlien cities cage us in a social home : 

There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft 
the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not 
part ! 

And woman, more than man, when 
deatli or woe. 

Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover 
low, 

Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — not Zvileika's name ! 

But life is hazai'd at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to 
fear : 

Yes, fear ! tlie doubt, the drea<l of los- 
ing thee. 

By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern 
decree. 

Tliat dread shall vanish witli tlie favour- 
ing gale. 

Which Love to-night hatli promised to 
my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath 
blest. 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts 
at rest. 

With tliee all toils are sweet, each clime 
hath charms ; 

Earth — sea alike — our world witiiin our 
arms ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the 
deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round 
my neck : 



l82 



BRITISH POETS 



The deepest murmur of this lip shall be. 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human 
Art: 

Tliei'e lie the only rocks our course can 
check ; 

Here moments menace — there are years 
of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Hor- 
ror's shape ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars, escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to 
close ; 

Of thine but one to waft us from our 
foes ; 

Yea — foes — to me will Giaflfir's hate de- 
cline ? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, 
thine ? 

" His head and faith from doubt and 

death 
Retui'n'd in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, thato'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while ; 
And since, though parted from my band. 
Too seldom now I leave tlie land, 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do. 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
' Tis fit I of tener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held tliine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but liate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-niglit must break thy chain : 
And wouldst thou save that haughty 

Bey,— 
Perchance his life who gave thee 

thine, — ■ 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art pliglited 

mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by trutlis imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head ! " 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
Stood like tliat statue of distress, 
When, her last hope for ever gone, 
Tlie mother liarden'd into stone : 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobe. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye. 
Essay 'd to speak, or look reply. 
Beneath tJie garden's wicket porch 
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 



Another — and anotlier — and another — 
' ' Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more 

than brother ! " 
Far, wide, tluough every thicket spread 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
Thej^ part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all. his sabre waving. 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — • 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

Dauntless he stood — '"Tis come — soon 

past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attemi)t were 
rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to tlie cavern moutli he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and 
eye ! — 
"They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars 'tis but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more 

nigh. 
Then f(jrth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — sweet ! retire : 

Yet staj'' within—here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only cluife. 
Stir not — lest even to thee percliance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him? — may I expire 
If in tliis sti"ife I seek th}' sire ! 
No— tliougli by him that poison pour'd ; 
No— though again he call me coward ! 
P>ut tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 

One bound he made, and gain'd the 
sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — bvit round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path lie cleft. 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears— -not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate 
strength — 

Oh ! are they yet in tiiue to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 



BYRON 



183 



His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray 'd, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met ; 
There as his last step left the land — 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sougJit in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his 
chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray : 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay. 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball— 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine 

rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bub- 
bling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troub- 
ling— 
If aught his lips essay 'd to groan. 
The rushing billows choked the tone ! 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each shiver 'd brand 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain ; 
But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go. seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigaeuni's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 



O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 

As shaken on his restless pillow, 

His head heaves with the heaving 

billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall 
lie 

Witliin a living grave? 
Tlie bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only lieart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 
That heart hath burst— that eye was 
closed — 

Yea — closed before his own ! 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek 

is pale : 
Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, 
Tliy destined lord is come too late : 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wuUeh warn his distant 

ear? 
Thy liandmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
The silent slaves with folded arms that 

wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the 

gale. 

Tell him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That fearful moment wlien he left the 

cave 

Thy heart grew chill: 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — 

thine all. 
And that last thought on him thou 

couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was 

still. 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin 

grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst 1 
That grief — though deep — though fatal— 

was thy first ! 
Thrice happy ne'er to feel nor fear the 

force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, 

remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang wh^J'e more thaa 

madness lies ! 



i84 



BRITISH POETS 



The worm that will not sleep — and never 

dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly 

night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes 

the light, 
That winds around, and tears the quiver- 
ing heart ! 
Ah I wherefore not consume it — antl 

depart ! 
Woe to tliee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
Vainly thou heaj)'st the dust upon tliy 

head. 
Vainly the sackclotli o'er thy limbs 

dost spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim : 

bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief . 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride forOsman's 

bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to 

wed. 
Thy Daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely 

beam. 
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's 

stream. 
What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that 

thou hast shed ! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
•'Where is my child?" — an Echo an- 
swers — " Where ? " 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms 

And withers not, though branch and 
leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief. 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, wliich ever blooms, 

Ev"n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonelj' lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might wliirl the leaves on high : 

And j^et, though storms and blight 
assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again : 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters witli celestial tears. 

For well maj' maids of Helle deem 
That this can he no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering 

hour. 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 



Nor droops though Spring refuse her 
shower. 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Hovu-i strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 

Thovigh mournful, pours not such a 
strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
TJie spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And j^et so sweet tlie tears they slied, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread. 
They scarce can bear the morn to lai-eak 

That melanchoiy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 

Expires that magic melody. 
And some liave been who could believe, 
(So fondly j'outhfvil dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame.) 
That note so piercing and jjrofound 
Will shape and sj'llable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 
'Tis from her cypress summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone : 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell. 
Next morn ' twas found where Selim fell ; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave ; 
And there by night, reclined, ' t is said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 

And hence extended by the billow, 

' Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pil- 
low ! " 

Where first it laj' that mourning flower 

Hath flourish 'd ; flourislielh this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and ])ale : 
As weeping Beauty's clieek at Sorrow's 
tale ! 

November, 1S13. November 29, 1813. 

ODE TO NxVPOLEON BUONAPARTE 

" Expende Annibalem :— quot libras in duce 

s\imrno 
Invenies ? " — Juvenal, Sat. x. 

'T IS done — but yesterday a King ! 
And arm'd with Kings to strive — 



BYRON 



185 



And now thou ait a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Wlio strew'd our earth with hostile 
bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since lie, miscalled the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestiouxl, — power to 

save, — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worsliipp'd thee ; 

Nor till tliy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for tliat lesson — It will teach 

To after- warriors more, 
Tlian high Pliilosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That s[)ell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph and the vanitj'. 

The rapture of the strife — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
Tlie sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewitli renown was rife — 
All quell'tl ! — Dark Spirit ! wliat must be 
The madness of thj^ memory ! 

Tiie Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for liis own ! 
Is it some yet imperial liope 
That with such change can calmU'cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He who of old would rend the oak, 
Dream'd not of the rebound : 

Chain'd by the truidc lie vainly broke — 
Alone^liow look"<l lie round ? 

Tliou, in the sternness of thy strength. 

An equal deed hast done at length. 
And darker fate hast found : 

He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 

But thuu must eat thy heart away ! 



The Roman, when his burning heart 

Was slaked witli blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke liad borne, 

Yet left him sucli a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abaiidon'd power. 

The Spaniard, 1 wlienthe lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell. 

Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well : 

Yet better liad he neither known 

A bigot's shrine, nor desjiot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To wliich tiiy \veakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as tliou art. 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see tliine own unstrung ; 
To think tliat God's fair world liatli been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can lioard liis own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling 
limb, 
And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may liold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest gnise have sliown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 

Nor written tluis in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honor dies. 
Some new Napoleon miglit arise. 

To shame tlie world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 

' The Emperor Charles V. 



i86 



BRITISH POETS 



Nor deeni'd Contempt could thus make 

mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful 
flower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing 
hour ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must slie too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair. 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard tliatgem, — 
'T is worth thy vanish "d diadem ! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue ^ hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 

What thoughts will there be thine, 
Wliile brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
But one — " The world loas mine ! " 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is w-ith thy sceptre gone. 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven. 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share wath him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, tliough not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
He in his fall preserved his pride 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 

There was a day — there was an houi". 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name. 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 



* Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, 
who after his second banishment earned his 
living by teaching, in Corinth. 



But thou forsooth must be a king, 

And don tlie purple vest. 
As if tliat foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment ? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star, the string, the crest ? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatched away ? 

Wliere may the wearied eye repose 

AVhen gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glow^s, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one ! 
Ajyril 9-10, 18U. April 16, 1814. 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Wliich waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, t 

The smiles that win, the %ints that 
glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 

June 12, ISU. 1815. 

OH ! SNATCH'D AWAY IN 
BEAUTY'S BLOOM 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender 
gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 



BYRON 



187 



And feed deep thought with many a 

dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly 

tread : 
Fond wretcli ! as if her step disturb'd 

the dead ! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
That death nor heeds nor hears dis- 
tress : 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 
Thy looks are wan, tliine eves are wet. 
ISI4 or 1815. April 23, 1815. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF 
SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf 
on tlie fold, 

And his cohorts were gleaming in pur- 
ple and gold ; 

And the sheen of tlieir spears was like 
stars on the sea. 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on 
deep Galilee. 

Like tlie leaves of the forest when Sum- 
mer is green , 

That host with tlieir banners at sunset 
were seen : 

Like the leaves of the forest when Au- 
tumn hatli blown, 

That host on the morrow lay wither'd 
and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings 

on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as 

he pass'd ; • 

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd 

deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and 

for ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril 
all wide. 

But through it there roll'd not the breath 
of his pride ; 

And the foam of his gapping lay white 
on the turf. 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beat- 
ing surf. 

And there lay t!ie rider distorted and 

pale. 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust 

on his mail,: 



And the tents were all silent, the ban- 
ners alone. 

The lances unlifted, the trumi)et un- 
blown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in 

their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of 

Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote 

by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of 

the Lord ! 

Febniari/ 17, ISlo. 1815. 

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft 

or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the 

Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in 

your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and 

bow, 
Shovild the soldiers of Saul look away 

from tlie foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy 

feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not 

to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part. 

Heir to my roj'alty, son of my heart ! 

Bright is the diadem, boundless the 
sway. 

Or kingly the death, which awaits us to- 
day ! 1S15. 1815. 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacrns 
Ducentium ortus ex aniino : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nymplia, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

There's not a joy the world can give like 

that it takes away. 
When the glow of early thought declines 

in feeling's dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the 

blush alone, which fades so fast. 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 

youth itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the 
wreck of happiness 



BRITISH POETS 



Are driven o'er tlie shoals of guilt or 

ocean of excess : 
The magnet uf their course is gone, or 

only points in vain 
The shore to vvliich their shiver'd sail shall 

never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldnes'S of tlie soul like 
death itself conies down ; 

It cannot feel for otliers' woes, it dare not 
dream its own ; 

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun- 
tain of our tears, 

And though tlie eye may sparkle still, "t is 
w^here the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, 

and mirth distract tlie breast, 
Through midnight liours that yield no 

more their former hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd 

turret wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but 

worn and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what 

I have been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er 

many a vanish'd scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, 

all brac-kish though they \h\ 
So, midst tlie witlier'd waste of life, those 

tears would flow to me. 

3Iarch, IS 15. 1816. 

FARE THEE WELL 

"Alas ! they liad been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth 
And constancy lives in reahus above ; 
And Ufe is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be vvrotli witli one we love. 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paininjr — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, not frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been." 
Coleeidge's Christabel. 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 
Still for ever, fare thee well : 

Even thongli unforgiving, never 
' Gainst thee sliall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thj' head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 



Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'T was not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend 
thee — 

Though it smile upon the blow, 
Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another's woe : 

Though iny many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one whicli once eml)raced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink Iw slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth, 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Botli shall live, but everj' morrow 
Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
When our child's fir.st accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego 'i 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is press'd. 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless 
thee. 
Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more may'st see. 

Then thj- heart will softly tremble 
With a i5ulse yet true to me. 

All ni}"^ faults perchance thou knowest, '\ 
All my madness none can know ; ' 

All my lioi)es, where'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee the}' go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, wliich not a world could bow. 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forstikes me now : 

But 't is done — all words are idle^ 
Words from me are "ainer still ; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way w'ithout the will. 



BYRON 



Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 

Tom from every nearer tie, 
Sear"d in lieart, and lone, and blighted. 

More than this 1 scarce can die. 

March IS, ISIG. April 4, 1816. 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like tliee ; 
And like music on tlie waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the luU'd winds seem di-eaming ; 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 

VVliose breast is gently heaving. 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows befoi'e tliee. 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion. 

Like the swell of .Summer's ocean. 

March 28, 1816. 1816. 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
CANTO THE THIRD 

" Afln que cette application vous format de 
peiiser a. autre chose ; 11 n'y aen verite de reniede 
([ue celul-lil et le temv>s." Leitie da Roi de 
Priisse a D'Alemberi, Sept. 7, 177(i. 

Is tliv face like thy mother's, my fair 

'cliild! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and 

heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes 

tliey smiled. 
And then we parted, — not as now we 

part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave around me ; and on 

higli 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's 

gone by. 
When Albion's lessening shores could 

grieve or glad mine eye. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once 

more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a 

steed 
That.knows his rider. Welcome to their 

roar I 



Swift be their guidance, wheresoeer it 
lead ! 

Tliougii the strain'd mast should quiver 
as a reed. 

And the rent canvas fluttering strew the 
gale. 

Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to 
sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tem- 
pest's breath prevail. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark 

mind ; 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun. 
And bear it with me, as the rushing 

wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I 

find 
Tlie furrows of long thought, and dried- 

up teai's. 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track be- 
hind. 
O'er which all heavily the journeying 

years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a 

flower appears. 

Since my young days of passion — joy. or 

pain. 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost 

a string. 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I 

cling ; 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetf ulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not un- 
grateful theme. 

He, who grown aged in this world of 

woe , 
In deeds, not years, piercing the de])ths 

of life. 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love or sori-ow, fame, ambition, 

strife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen 

knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thouglit seeks refuge in lone caves, 

yet rife 
With airv images, and shapes which 

dwell 
Still uiiitnpair'd, though old, in the soul's 

haunted cell. 



I go 



BRITISH POETS 



'T is to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense that we endow 
With form ourfanc}', gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art 

tliou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I tra- 
verse earth. 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy 

birtii, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd 
feelings' dearth. 

Yet must I think less wildly ; — I have 
thouglit 

Too long and darkly, till my brain be- 
came, 

In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 

A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 

And thus, untaught in youth my heart 
to tame. 

My springs of life were jjoisou'd. 'T is 
too late ! 

Yet am I changed ; though still enough 
the same 

In strength to bear what time cannot 
abate, 

And feed on bitter fruits without ac- 
cusing Fate. 

Something too much of this : — but now 

't is past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold re-appoars at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more 

would feel. 
Wrung with the wounds wliich kill not 

but ne'er heal ; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd 

him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the 

limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles 

near the brim. 

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he 

found 
The dregs were wormwood, — but he 

fiU'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in 

vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gjill'd for ever, fettering though 

unseen. 
And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn 

witli pain, 



Which pined although it spoke not, and 

grew keen, 
Entering with everj^ step he took through 

many a scene. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joj', no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many 

stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd 

to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and 

Nature's hand. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor 

seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 

cheek. 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow 

old? 
Who can contemplate Fame through 

clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor 

climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, 

roU'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's 

fond prime. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man-; with whom he 

held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul 

was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still un- 

compell'd. 
He would not yield dominion of his 

mind 
To spirits against whom hisownrebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which 

could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without 

mankind. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him 

were friends ; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was liis 

home ; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, 

extends, 
He had the passion and the power to 

roam ; 



BYRON 



191 



The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they 

spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the 

tome 
Of his land's tongue, whicli he would oft 

forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams 

on the lake. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the 

stars. 
Till he liad peojiled them with beings 

bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and 

eartliborn jars. 
And human frailties, were forgotten 

quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will 

sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the liglit 
To which it mounts, as if to break the 

link 
That keeps us from 3'on heaven which 

woos us to its brink. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a 

thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and weari- 
some, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt 

wing. 
To whom the boundless air alone were 

home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'er- 

come, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry 

dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the 

heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his 

bosom eat. 

Self -exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less 

of gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb. 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though 't were wild, — as on the 

plundei"'d wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their 

doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sink- 
ing deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore 
to chock. 



Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's 

dust ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred 

below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triuin])halshow ? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler 

so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it 

be :— 
How that red I'ain hath made the harvest 

grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by 

thee. 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making 

Victory ? 

And Harold stands upon this place of 

skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Water- 
loo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave 

annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting 

too ; 
In •' pride of place " liere last the eagle 

flew. 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent 

plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 

through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
He wears the sliatter'd links of the 

world's broken chain. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the 
bit 

And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more 
free ? 

Did nations combat to make One sub- 
mit ; 

Or league to teach all kings true sov- 
ereignty ? 

What ! shall reviving Thraldom again 
be 

The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 

Sliall we, who struck the Lion down, 
shall we 

Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly 
gaze 

And servile knees to thrones ? No ; 
prove before ye praise ! 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no 

more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with 

hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up 

before 



igi 



BRITISH POETS 



The trampler of her vineyards ; in v.iiii 

years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the 

accord 
Of roused-np millions ; all that most 

endears 
Glory, is v^dien the myrtle wreathes a 

sword 
Such as Harmoilius drew on Athens' 

tyrant lord. 

There was a sound of revelry by night 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd 

then 
Her Beauty and her Cliivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and 

brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and 

when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which 

spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 

like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the 

wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony 

street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be uncon- 

fined ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and 

Pleasure meet 
To chase tlie gh)wing Hours witli flying 

feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in 

once more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
fore ! 
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's 

opening roar ! 

Within a window'd niche of that high 
hall 

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he 
did hear 

That sound the first amidst the fes- 
tival, 

And caught its tone with Death's pro- 
phetic ear ; 

And when they smiled because he 
deeni'd it near. 

His heart more truly knew that peal 
too well 

Which stretch'd his father on a bloody 
bier, 



And roused tlie vengeance blood alone 

could quell ; 
He rvisird into the field, and, foremost 

fighthig, fell. 

Ah ! tlien and there was hurrying to 

and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings 

of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an 

hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own love- 
liness ; 
And there were sudden partings, sucli 

as ])ress 
The life from out young hearts, and 

choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who 

could guess 
If ever more should ineet those mutual 

eyes, 
Since upon night so svveet such awful 

morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : 
the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clat- 
tering car. 

Went pouring forward witli impetuous 
speed , 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of 
war ; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 

And near, the beat of tlie alarming 
drum 

Rovised up the soldier ere tlie morning 
star ; 

Wliile throng'd the citizens with ter- 
ror dumb. 

Or whispering, with wliite lips — "Tlie 
foe, they come ! they come ! " 

And wild and high tlie " Cameron's 

gathering " rose ! 
The war-note of Locliiel. which Albyn's 

hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her 

Saxon foes : — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch 

thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath 

wliich fills 
Tiieir mountain-pipe, so fill the moun- 
taineers 
Witli tlie fierce native daring which 

instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand 

years. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 

clansman's ears ! 



4 



BYRON 



193 



And Ardennes waves above them her 

green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they 

pass. 
Gi'ieving. if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over tlie unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above 

sliall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope shall 

moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudlj^ gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound 

of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — 

tlie day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which 

when rent 
Tlie earth is cover'd thick vfith other 

clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd 

and pent. 
Rider and horse. — friend, foe, — in one 

red burial blent ! 

Tlieir pi-aise is hymn'd by loftier harps 

til an mine : 
Yet one I would select from that proud 

throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his 

line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong. 
And partly that bright names will hallow 

song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when 

shower'd 
The deatli -bolts deadliest the thinn'd 

files along. 
Even wliere the tliickest of war's tem- 
pest lo\ver"d. 
They reach'd no noisier breast than thine, 

young gallant Howard ! 

There have been tears and breaking 

hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing had I such to 

give ; 
But wlien I stood beneath the fresh 

green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst 

cease to live, 
And saw around me tlie wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the 

Spring 

13 



Came forth her work of gladness to 

contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the 

wing. 
I turn'd from all she brought to those 

she could not bring. 

I turn'd to tliee, to thousands, of wliom 

each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to 

teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, 

must awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the 

sound of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot 

slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd but assumes a stronger, 

bitterer claim. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, 
smihng, mourn : 

The tree will wither long before it fall ; 

Tlie hull drives on, though mast and 
sail be torn ; 

The roof-tree smks, but moulders on 
the hall 

In massy lioariness ; the ruin'd wall 

Stands when its wind-worn battlements 
are gone ; 

The bars survive the captive tliey en- 
thral ; 

The day drags through, though storms 
keep out the sun ; 

And thus the heart will break, yet bro- 
kenly live on : 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more 

it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not 

forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise ; and still, and 

cold. 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 

aches. 
Yet withei's on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things 

are untold. 

There is a very life in our despair. 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for 
it were 



194 



BRITISH POETS 



As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's 

shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, 

would he name threescore ? 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of 

man : 
Tliey are enough ; and if tliy tale be 

true. 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that 

fleeting span. 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and 

anew 
Their children's lips shall eclio them, 

and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations 

drew, 
Our countrymen w^ere warring on that 

day ! " 
And this is mucii, and all which will not 

pass away. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst 
of men. 

Whose spirit, antithetically mixt. 

One moment of the miglitiest, and again 

On little objects with like firmness fixt ; 

Extreme in all things ! liadst thou been 
betwixt. 

Thy throne had still beentliine, or never 
been ; 

For daring made thy rise as fall : thou 
seek'st 

Even now to re-assume tiie imperial 
mien. 

And shake again the world, the Thun- 
derer of the scene ! 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art 

tliou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild 

name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds 

than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of 

Fame. 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and 

became 
The flatterer of tliy fierceness, till thou 

wert 
A god unto thyself ; nor less the sajne 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er 

thou didst assert. 



Oh, more or less than man — in high or 

low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the 

field; 
Now making monarchs ' necks tliy foot- 
stool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught 

to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, 

rebuild. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
Look tlirough thine own, nor curb the 

lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave 

the loftiest star. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turn- 
ing tide 

With that untaught innate pliilosophy, 

Wiiich, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep 
pride. 

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 

When the whole host of hatred stood 
hard by. 

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou 
hast smiled 

With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 

Wlien Fortune fled her spoil'd and 
favorite child. 

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon 
him piled. 

Sager than in thy fortvmes : for in them 

Ambition steel'd thee on too far to sliow 

That just habitual scorn, which could 
contemn 

Men and their thoughts ; ' twas wise to 
feel, not so 

To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 

And s]nirn the instruments tliou wert to 
use 

Till they were turn'd unto thine over- 
throw : 

"Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 

So hath it proved to thee, and all such 
lot who choose. 

If. like a tower upon a headland rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall 

alone. 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave 

the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which 

paved thy throne. 
TJieir admiration tiiy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not 

then 
(Unless aside tiiy purple had been 

thrown) 



BYRON 



195 



Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics eartli wei"e far too 
wide a den. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a 

fire 
And motion of the soul which will not 

dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless ever- 
more, 
Preys upon high adventui-e, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to liini who bears, to all who ever 
bore. 

This makes the madmen who have made 

men mad 
By their contagion ;. Conquerors and 

Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom 

add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 

things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret 

springs. 
And are themselves the fools to those 

they fool ; 
Envied, yet how uTienviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a 

school 
Which would unteacli mankind the lust 

to shine or rule : 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at 

last. 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils 

past. 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to 

waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid 

by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts inglori- 

ously. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall 

find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds 

and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
Must look down on the hate of tiiose 

below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 



And far beneath the earth and ocean 

spread, 
Roundhim are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, . 
And thus reward tlie toils which to those 

summits led. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world 

will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal Nature ! for wlio teems like 

thee. 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and 

dells. 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, 

mountain, vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern 

farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin 

greenly dwells. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty 

mind. 
Worn, but unstoopingto the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to tlie crannying 

wind. 
Or holding dark communion with the 

cloud. 
There was a day when they were young 

and proud ; 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd 

below ; 
But they wlio fought are in a bloody 

shroud. 
And those which waved are shredless 

dust ere now. 
And tlie bleak battlements shall bear no 

future blow. 

Beneath those battlements, within those 

walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in 

Ijroud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing liis evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier Iieroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws conquerors 

should have 
But history's purchased page to call them 

great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their liopes were not less warm, their 

souls were full as brave. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
Wliat deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their 
shields, 



196 



BRITISH POETS 



With emblems well devised by amorous 
pride, 

Through all the mail of iron hearts 
would glide ; 

But still their flame was fierceness, and 
drew on 

Keen contest and destruction near allied, 

And many a tower for some fair mis- 
chief won. 

Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its 
ruin run. 

But Thou, exulting and abounding 

river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they 

flow 
Through banks whose beauty would 

endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright crea- 
tion so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface 

mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — 

then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to 

know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem 

such to me, 
Even now w^hat wants thy stream ? — 

that it should Lethe be. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy 
banks, 

But these and half their fame have 
pass'd away. 

And Slaughter heap'd on high liis welter- 
ing ranks ; 

Their very graves are gone, and what 
are they ? 

Thy tide wash'd down tlie blood of 
yesterday, 

And all was stainless, and on th}^ clear 
stream 

Glass'd, with its dancing liglit, the 
sunny ray ; 

But o'er the blacken'd memory's blight- 
ing dream 

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweep- 
ing as they seem. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
Yet not insensible to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even 

exile dear : 
Though on his brow were graven lines 

austere. 
And tranquil sternness, which had ta'en 

the place 



Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not alwajs absent from his face. 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal 
with transient trace. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though 

his days 
Of passion had consumed them.selves to 

dust. . 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart 

must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though 

disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus 

he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and 

sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own 

would melt. 
And in its tenderer hour on that his 

bosom dwelt. 

And he had learn'd to love, — I know not 
why. 

For this in such as him seems strange of 
mood, — 

The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 

Even in its earliest nurture ; what sub- 
dued, 

To change like this, a mind so far im- 
bued 

With scOTn of man, it little boots to 
know ; 

But thus it was : and though in solitude 

Small power the nipp'd affections have 
to grow, 

In him this glow^'d wdien all beside had 
ceased to glow. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath 
been said. 

Which unto his was bovmd by stronger 
ties 

Than the church links withal ; and, 
though unwed. 

That love was pure, and, far above dis- 
guise, 

Had stood the test of mortal enmities 

Still undivided, and cemented more 

By peril, dreaded most in female ej'es ; 

But this was firm, and from a foreign 
shore 

Well to that heart might his these ab- 
sent greetings pour ! 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding 
Rhine, 



BYRON 



197 



Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks whicli bear the 

vine, 
And hills all rich with blossoni'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and 

wine. 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them 
• shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should 

see 
With double joy wert tliou with me. 

And peasant girls, with deep blue 

eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls 

of gray ; 
And many a rock which steeply 

lowers. 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of 

Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they 

touch, 
I know tliat they must wither'd be. 
But yet reject tiiem not as sucii ; 
For i have cherish'd them as dear. 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide th}^ soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping 

nigh. 
And know'st them gather'd by the 

Rhine. 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 

The river nobly foams and flows. 
The charm of this enchanted ground. 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round : 
Tlie haughtiest breast its wish miglit 

bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of 

Rhine ! 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
Tliere is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant 
mound ; 



Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early 

tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough 

soldier's lid. 
Lamenting and yet envying such a 

doom. 
Falling for France, whose rights he 

battled to resume. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 

career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends 

and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering 

here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of 

those. 
The few in number, who had not 

o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she be- 
stows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had 

kept 
The wdiiteness of his soul, and thus men 

o'er him wept. 

Here Elu'enbreitstein, with hershatter'd 

wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her 

height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell 

and ball 
Rebounding idlv on her strength did 

light : 
A tower of victory ! from whence the 

flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the 

plain : 
But Peace destroy 'd what War could 

never bliglit. 
And laid those jjroud roofs bare to Sum- 
mer's rain — 
On wliich the iron shower for years had 

pour'd in vain. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long 

delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on liis 

way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might 

stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease 

to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it wei'e 

here, 



198 



BRITISH POETS 



Whei'e Nature, nor too sombre nor too 

Wild but not rude, awful j^et not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to 
the year. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like 
thine ; 

The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cheiisli'd gaze upon thee. lovely 
Rhine ! 

'T is witli the thankful heart of parting 
praise ; 

More might\^ spots may rise, more glar- 
ing sliine, 

But none unite in one attaching maze 

The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories 
of old days. 

The negligently gi'and, the fruitful 

bloom 
Of coming ripene.ss, the white city's 

sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's 

gloom , 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls 

between. 
The wild rocks shaped as they had 

turrets been, 
In mockery of man's art ; and these 

withal 
A race of faces happy as the .scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though 

Empires near them fall. 

But these recede. Above me are the 

Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose A^ast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy 

scalps. 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, wliere forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of 

snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appalls. 
Gather around these summits, as to 

show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, j^et 

leave vain man below. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare 

to scan. 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in 

vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! 

where man 



May gaze on ghastly tropliies of the slain. 

Nor blush for those who conquer'd on 
that plain ; 

Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tomb- 
less host, 

A bony heap, through ages to remain. 

Themselves their monument ; — the 
Stygian coast 

Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shi'iet'd 
each wandering ghost. 

While Waterloo with Cannte's carnage 

vies. 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall 

stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless vic- 
tories. 
Won by the unambitious heart and 

hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought qhampions in no princely 

cavise 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no 

land 
Doom'd to bewail tlie blasphemy of 

laws 
Making kings" rights divine, by some 

Draconic clause. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief- worn aspect of old 

days ; 
'T is the last remnant of the wi-eck of 

years, 
And looks as with the wikl-bewilder'd 

gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there 

it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays. 
When the coeval pride of human hands. 
Levell'd Adventicuni,! hath strew'd her 

subject lands. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be 
the name !— 

Julia — the daughter, the devoted— gave 

Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, be- 
neath a claim 

Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 
grave. 

Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers 
would crave 

The life she lived in ; but the judge was 
just. 

And then she died on him she could 
not save. 

> The Roman capital of Helvetia ; now Aven- 
clies. 



BYRON 



199 



Their tomb was simple, and without 

a bust. 
And held within their urn one mind, 

one heart, one dust. 

But these are deeds which should not 

pass away. 
And names that must not wither, 

though the eartli 
Forgets her empires with a just decay. 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their 

death and birth ; 
The liigh, the mountain-majestyof worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine 

snow. 
Imperishably pure beyond all things 

below. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal 

face, 
Tlie mirror where the stars and moun- 
tains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far 

lieight and hue ; 
Tliere is too much of man here, to look 

through 
With a fit mind the might which I 

behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd 

than of old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd 

me in their fold. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, man- 
kind : 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
Nor is it discontent to keep tlie )nind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
lu the hot throng, where we become 

the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with tlie 

coil. 
In wretched interchange of wrong for 

wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving 
where none are strong. 

There, in a moment we may plunge our 

years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to 

tears. 
And color things to come with hues 

of Night ; 



The race of life becomes a hopeless 

flight 
To those who walk in darkness : on the 

sea 
The boldest steer but where their ports 

invite ; 
But there are wanderers o"er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and 

anchor 'd ne'er shall be. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the ari-owy Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feetls it as a motlier who doth 

make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd 

to inflict or bear ? 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
Higli mountains are a feeling, but the 

hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in natui-e, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleslily chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul 

can flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 

plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not 

in vain. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and tliis is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past. 
As on a place of agony and strife. 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was 

cast. 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to 

spring. 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as 

the blast 
Which it would cope with, on de- 
lighted wing. 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which 
round our being cling. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be 

all free 
From what it hates in this degraded 

foi'm. 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 



BRITISH POETS 



Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more 

warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each 

spot? 
Of which, even now, I share at times 

the immortal lot? 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, 
a part. 

Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 

Is not the love of these deep in my heart 

With a pure passion ? should I not con- 
temn 

All objects, if compared with these ? and 
stem 

A tide of suffering, rather than forego 

Such feelings for the hard and worldly 
phlegm 

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd 
below. 

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts 
which dare not glow ? 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Tliose who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all 

fire. 
A native of the land where I respire 
Tlie clear air for a while — a passing guest 
Where he became a being. — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish 

quest. 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed 

all rest. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild 

Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over liassion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first 

drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; 

yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heav- 
enly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as 

they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- 
ingly and fast. 

His love was passion's essence : — as a tree 
On fire by liglitning, with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the 

same. 
But his was not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our 

dreams, 



But of ideal beauty, whicti became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd 
though it seems. 

This breatlaed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and 

sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would 

greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his 

would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch through brain 

and breast 
Flash'd the thi-ill'd spirit's love-devour- 
ing heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more 

blest 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they 

seek possest. 

His life was one long war with self- 

sought foes. 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for liis 

mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and 

chose. 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange 

and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who 

may know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could 

never find ; 
But he was phrensied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears 

a reasoning show. 

For then he was inspired, and from him 

came. 
As from the Pj^thian's mystic cave of 

yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in 

flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were 

no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay 

before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she 

bore. 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which fol- 
lows o'ergrown fears ? 

They made themselves a fearful monu- 
ment ! 

The wreck of old opinions — things 
which grew, 



BYRON 



20I 



Breathed from tlie birth of time : the 

veil they rent, 
Aud what behind it lay, all earth shall 

viev\'. 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wlierewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same 

hour refill' d. 
As heretofore, because ambition was self- 

will'd. 

But tliis will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt tlieir strength, and 

made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, 

allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they 

dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But 

they. 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had 

dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with 

the day : 
What marvel then, at times, if they 

mistook tlieir prey ? 

What deep wounds ever closed with- 
out a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal 

to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who 

war 
With their own hopes, and have been 

vanquish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his 

lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until 

tlie hour 
Wliich shall atone for years ; none need 

despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — 

the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 

slower. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted 

lake. 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a 

thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to 

forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer 

spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I 

loved 



Torn ocean's I'oar, but thy soft mur- 
muring 

Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice re- 
proved. 

That I witii stern delights should e'er 
have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, 

yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly 

seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights 

appear 
Precipitovisly steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fi'agrance from 

the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on 

the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended 

oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good- 
night carol more ; 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the 

brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is 

still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the 

hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they 

infuse 
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of 

her hues. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of 

heaven ! 
If in yovir bright leaves we would read 

the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be for- 
given. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye 

are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from 

afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have 
named themselves a star. 

AH heaven and earth are still — though 

not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling 
most ; 



202 



BRITISH POETS 



And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 

deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the 

high host 
Of stars, to the luU'd lake and moun- 
tain coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of tliat which is of all Creator and de- 
fence. 

Then stii's the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then 

doth melt, 
A.nd purifies from self : it is a tone. 
The soul and source of music, which 

makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty : — 

't would disarm 
The spectre Deatli, had he substantial 

power to harm. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places, and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and 

thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are 

weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and 

compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or 

Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth 

and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe 
thy prayer ! 

The skj^ is changed ! — and such a change ! 

Oh niglit. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are won- 
drous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the 

light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags 

among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not fi'om one 

lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found 

a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty 

shroud . 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 

aloud ! 



And this is in the night : — Most glorious 
night ! 

Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let 
me be 

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 

A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric 
sea. 

And the big rain comes dancing to tlie 
earth ! 

And now again 'tis black, — -and now, the 
glee 

Of the loud hills shakes with its moun- 
tain-mirth. 

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
quake's birth. 

Now, where the swift Rlione cleaves 
his waj"^ between 

Heights wliicli appear as lovers who 
have parted 

In hate, whose mining depths so inter- 
vene, 

That they can meet no more, though 
broken-hearted ; 

Tliough in their souls, which thus each 
other thwarted, 

Love was the very root of the fond rage 

Which blighted their life's bloom, and 
then dejsarted : 

Itself expired, but leaving them an age 

Of years all winters, — war within them- 
selves to wage : 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath 

cleft his way. 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en 

his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make 

their play. 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand 

to hand. 
Flashing and cast around ; of all tlie 

band, 
Tlie brightest through tliese parted hills 

hath fork"d 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
There the hot shaft should blast what- 
ever therein lurk'd. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, 

lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, 

and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well 

may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; 

the far roll 



BYRON 



203 



Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless. — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests ! is the 

goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human 

breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, 

some high nest ? 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could 

I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and tlius 

throw 
Soul, lieart, mind, passions, feelings, 

strong or weak, 
All that I would liave sought, and all I 

seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — 

into one word, 
And that one word were Liglitning, I 

. would S]ieak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thouglit, sheatli- 

ing it as a sword. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn. 
With breath all incense, and with 

cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful 

scorn. 
And living as if earth contained no 

tomb. — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
Tlie march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Lenian ! may 

find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
31uch, that maj^ give us pause, if pon- 

der'd fittingly. 

C'larens ! sweet Clarens. birthplace of 

deep Love ! 
Thine air is tlie young breatli of pas- 
sionate tliought : 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows 

above 
Tlie very Glaciers have his colors 

cauglit. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them 

wrought 
By rays which aleep there lovinglj^ ; the 

rocks. 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, 

who sought 
In them a refuge from the worUlly 

shocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope 

that woos, then mocks. 



Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are 

trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a 

throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; 

where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the 

flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 

blown. 
His soft and summer breath, whose 

tender povt^er 
Passes the strength of storms in their 

most desolate hour. 

All things are here of him ; from the 

black pines. 
Which are his shade on higli, and tlie 

loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the 

vines 
Which slope his green path downward 

to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and 

adore. 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the 

wood. 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all 

lioar, 
Bvit light leaves, young as joy, stands 

where it stood. 
Offering to him, and his, a populous 

solitude ; 

A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
And fairy-form'd and many color'd 

things. 
Who worship him with notes more sweet 

than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of 

springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which 

brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here 

extend. 
Mingling, and made by Love, imto one 

mighty end. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn 

that lore. 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who 

knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more ; 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's 

woes, 



204 



BRITISH POETS 



And the world's waste, have driven him 

far from those, 
For 't is his natui-e to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or 

grows 
• Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau 

this spot. 
Peopling it witli affections ; but he found 
It was the scene whicli Passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; "t was the 

ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone 

unbound. 
And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 't is lone. 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a 

sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here 

the Rhone 
Hath sijread himself a couch, the Alps 

have rear'd a throne. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been 

the abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd 

a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by 

dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their 

steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down 

thunder, and the flame 
Of Heaven again assail'd, if Heaven the 

while 
On man and man's research could deign 

do more tlian smile. 

The one^ was fire and fickleness, a child 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 

wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as 

the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things 

prone, — 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to 

shake a throne. 

The other,2 deep and slow, exhausting 
thought, 



* Voltaire. 



» Gibbon. 



And hiving wisdom with each studious 

year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning 

wrouglit, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge 

severe. 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn 

sneer ; 
Tlie lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which 

grew from fear. 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready 

Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so elo- 
quently well. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by 

them. 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less con- 
demn ; 
The hour must come when such things 

shall be made 
Known unto all, or hope and dread 

all ay 'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust. 
Which, thvis much we are sure, must 

lie decay'd ; 
And when it sliall revive, as is our 

trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what 

is just. 

But let me quit man's works, again to 

read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and 

suspend 
This page, which from mj^ reveries I feed. 
Until it seems prolonging witiiout end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps 

tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey 

whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, 

where 
The earth to her embrace compels the 

powers of air. 

Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost 

won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of 

empires ; still. 
The fount at which the panting mind 

assuages 



BYRON 



205 



Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there 

her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's 

imperial hill. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd witli no kind auspices : to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to 

deem 
We are not what we should be, and to 

steel 
The heart against itself ; and to conceal. 
What a proud caution, love, or hate, or 

auglit. — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or 

zeal,— 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our 

thought, 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it 

is taught. 

And for tliese words, thus woven into 

song. 
It may be that they are a harmless 

wile,— 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet 

along. 
Which I would seize, in passing, to be- 
guile 
My breast, or that of others, for a wliile. 
Fame is tlie thirst of youth, but I am 

not 
So young as to regard men's frown or 

smile. 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot : 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or 

forgot. 

I have not loved the world, nor tlie world 

me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor 

bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee. 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried 

aloiid 
In worship of an echo ; in tlie crowd 
Tiiey could not deem me one of such ; I 

stood 
Among them; bvit not of them ; in a 

shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their 

thoughts, and still could. 
Had I not filed my minel, which thus 

itself subdvied. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world 

me, — 
But let U8 part fair foes ; I do believe. 
Though I have found them not, that 

there may be 



Words which are tilings, hopes which 
will not deceive. 

And virtvies which are merciful, nor 
weave 

Snares for the failing ; I would also 
deem 

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely 
grieve ; 

That two, or one, are almost what the)' 
seem. 

That goodness is no name, and hap- 
piness no dream 

My daughter ! witli tliy name this song 

begun ; 
My daughter ! witli thy name thus much 

shall end ; 
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the 

friend 
To whom the shadows of far years ex- 
tend ; 
Albeit ni)' brow thou never shouldst 

behold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions 

blend, 
And reach into th}- heart, when mine is 

cold, 
A token and a tone, even from thy 

father's mould. 

To aid thy mind's development, to watch 
Thy dawn of little jovs, to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, to view thee 

catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders 3'et to 

thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's 

kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved 

for me ; 
Yet tliis was in my natuj'e : as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something 

like to this. 

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should 

be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though 

my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 

fraught 
With desolation, and a broken claim ; 
Though the grave closed between us, — 

't were tlie same, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though 

to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an 

aim, 



2o6 



BRITISH POETS 



And an attainment, — all would be in 

vain. — 
Still tliou wouldst love me, still that 

more than life retain. 

The child of love, though born in bit- 
terness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, and thine no 

less. 
As yetsucliare around tliee, but thy fire 
Shall be more temper *d, and thy hope 

far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er 

the sea 
And from tlie mountains where I now 

respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon 

thee, 
As with a sigh, I deem thou might'st 

have been to me. 
May-June, ISIG. November 18, 1816. 

SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal Spirit of tlie chainless Mind ! 
Brightestin dungeons. Libert}' ! thuu;ut. 
For there thy habitation is the iieart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can 

bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are con- 

sign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 

gloom. 
Their country conquers with their mar- 
tyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on 

every wind. 
Cliillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was 

trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks 

eff'ace ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

June, 1810. December 5, 1816. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

My hair is gra)% but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, thougli not with 
toil. 
But rusted with a vile repose. 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
And mine has been the fate of those 



To whom the goodly earth and air 

Are baun'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 

But this was for my father's faith- 

I suflfer'd chains and courted death ; 

Tliat father perisli'd at tlie stake 

For tenets he would not forsake ; 

And for the same liis lineal race 

In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 

We were seven — who now .are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in^ire. and two in fieltl 
Tlieir belief with blood have seaTil, 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Tliree were yi a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns, massy and 

giay. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam whicrh hath lost its waj^ 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsli's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cnnkering thing. 

For in these lindis its teeth rem;iin. 
With marks tluit will not wear away. 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is ])ainful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen tlie sun so rise 
For ,years — I cannot count tliem o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score. 
When my last brotlier droop'd and died, 
And I. lay living by his side. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
And we were tliree — yet, each alone. 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our siglit : 
And thus together — yet apart. 
Fetter 'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreiiry tone. 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 



BYRON 



207 



A grating sound, not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy, but to nie 
They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three. 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, wliom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him. with eyes as blue as heaven — 
For liim my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being Ifree) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of longliglit. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abliorr'd to view below. 

The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with Iiis kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war liad 

stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in cliains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there tlie deer and wolf ; 

To him his dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Tlius much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

Which round about the wave inthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — -and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 



Wash though the bars when winds were 
high 

And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd. 
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set me free. 

I said my neai'er brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that "twas coarse and rude, 
For we were vised to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat. 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a tiiousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold. 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not liold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — • 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died, and they unlock'd his chain. 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave, 
I begg'd them as a boon to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not I'est. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — : 
They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there : 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such luurder's fitting monument ! 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race. 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too. who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk awav. 



2o8 



BRITISH POETS 



Oh, God ! it is a fearful tiling 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any sliape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on tlie breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender, kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek wliose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray ; 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most^; 

And then the sighs he would supjaress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear ; 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear : 

I knew 't was hopeless, but ni}' dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/only stirr'd in this black spot, 

7 only lived, /only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Wiiich bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath— 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 

First came the loss of light, and air, 



And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — ■ 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray : 
It was not night, it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness without a place ; 
There were no stars, no earth, no time. 
No check, no change, no good, no crime, 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird : 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I Vk^as the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
I saw the dungeon walls and fioor 
Close slowly rovmd me as before, 
I saw the glinamer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, I 

And it was come to love me when ! 

None lived to love me so again, | 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink. ^ 
Had brought me back to feel and think. i 
I know not if it late were free, ' 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant fi-om Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the 

while 
Which made me both to weep and 

smile — 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brotlier's soul x^ome down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 



BYRON 



209 



And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 
For he would never thus have tlown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, 
Lone as the corse witliin its shroud, 
Lone as a solitary cloud, — 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
Tliat liath no business to appear 

When skies are. blue, and earth is gay. 

A kind of change came in my fate. 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what liad made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe. 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain. 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one. 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod. 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I tliought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and tliick. 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and 
sick. 

I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not tlierefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth 

be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child, no sire, no kin liad I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them liad made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

I saw them, and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below. 
And the bine Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the wliite-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then tliere was a little isle. 
Which in my very face did smile. 
The only one in view ; 

14 



A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
"And on it there were young flowers 
growing. 
Of gentle breath and hue. 
Tlie fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly ; 
And then new tears came in m}' eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet m}-- glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

It might be months, or years, or daj^s, 

I kept no count, I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free ; 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appeared at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me liad grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
Witli spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell ; 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 

Jane 27-29-Jaly 10, ISIG. December 5, 

1816. 

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 

Though the day of my destiny's over. 
And the star of my fate hatii declined, 

Tliy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find. 



BRITISH POETS 



Though thy soul with my grief was ac- 
quainted, 
It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit liath 
painted 
It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smile winch answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling. 

Because it reminds me of tliine ; 
And when winds are at war with the 
ocean . 

As the breasts I believed in with me. 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is tliat they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is 
shiver'd. 
And its fi'agments are sunk in the 
wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is delivered 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 
They may crush, but they shall not 
contemn ; 
They may torture, but shall not subdue 
me ; 
'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 

Thougli human, thou didst not deceive 
me. 
Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve 
me, 
Though slander'd, thou never couldst 
shake ; 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim 
me, 
Though parted, it was not to fl}'. 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame 
me. 
Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 

Nor the war of the many with one ; 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found tliat. whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath 
perish'd. 
Thus much I at least may recall. 
It hath taught me that what I most 
cherish'd 
Deserved to be dearest of all : 



In the desert a fountain is springing. 
In the wide waste there still is a tree, 

And a bird in the solitude singing, 
Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
July -24. ISIG. December 5, 1816. 

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be 

thine ; 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
Go where I will, to me thou art the 

same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my des- 
tiny,— 
A world to roam through, and a home 
with thee. 

The first were nothing— had I still the 

last, 
It vere the liaven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
And mine is not the wish to make them 

less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and 

past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of 

yore,— 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly 

shocks. 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to 

screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their 

reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the 

day 
That gave me being, gave me that which 

marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that wallcM 

astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle 

hard. 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of 

clay : 
But now I fain would for a time survive. 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 



BYRON 



211 



Kingdoms and empires in my little daj' 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have 

roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
Something — I know not wliat — does still 

upliold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase 

pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me — -or perliaps a cold despair, 
Brouglit on when ills liabitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul 

refer. 
And with light armor we may learn to 

bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which 

was not 
Tlie chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, 

and brooks, 
Whicli do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my j^oung mind was sacrificed to 

books. 
Come as of yore upon me. and can melt 
My lieart with recognition of tlieir looks; 
And even at moments I could tliink I 

see 
Some living thing to love — but none like 

thee. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which 

create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes 

inspire ; 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most de- 
sire. 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

Oh that thou wertbiit with me ! — but I 

grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude whicli I liave vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret; 
There may be others which I less may 

show ! — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 



I did remind thee of our own dear Lake 
By the old Hall which may be mine no 

more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
Tlie sweet remembi'ance of a dearer 

shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory 

make. 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes 

before ; 
Though, like all things which I have 

loved, thej^ are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will 

comply— 
It is but in lier summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 
To see her gentle face witliout a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall 

be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And tliat I would not ; — for at length 

I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life 

begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for 

me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to 

shun, 
I had been better tlian I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would 

have slept ; 
I had not suffer'd and thou hadst not 

wept. 

Witli false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with 

Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with 

me grew. 
And made me all which they can make 

— a name. 
Yet tliis was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone 

before. 

And for the future, this world's future 

may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a da}^ ; 
Having survived so many things that 

were ; 



BRITISH POETS 



My years have been no slumber, but the 

prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which mii^^lit liave fiUM a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd 

me by. 

And for the lemnant which may be to 

come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded 

sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would 

steal, 
And for the present, I would uot benumb 
My feelings furtlier. — Nor shall I conceal 
Tliat with all this I still can look arouml. 
And worship Nature with a thought 

profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy 

heart 
I know mj^self secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou 

art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign : 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow 

decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow 

or fast. 
The tie which bound the first endures 

the last ! July, ISIG. 1830. 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

They say that Hope is happiness : 

But genuine Love must prize the ])ast. 

And Memory wakes the thoughts that 
bless : 
They rose the first — they set the last ; 

And all that Memory loves the most 
Was once our only Hope to be. 

And all that Hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into Memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all ; 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recall. 

Nor dare we think on what we nre. 
?. . . 1821). 

DAEKNESS 

I HAD a dream, which was not all a 

dream. 
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and 

the stars 



beacons ; cities were 
gather'd round their 
other's 



Did wander darkling in the eternal 

space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening "in the 

moonless air ; 
Morn came and went — and came, and 

brought no day, 
And men forgot their passions in the 

dread 
Of this their desolation : and all hearts 
Were chillM into a selfish praver for 

light ; 
And they did live bj"^ watch fires— and 

the thrones, 
Tlie palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
Tiie habitations of all things which 

dwell. 
Were burnt for 
I consumed, 

And men were 

blazing homes 
To look once more into each 

face ; 
Happy were those who dwelt within the 

eye 
Of the volcanos, and their mountain- 

toi'ch : 
A fearful hope was all the world con- 
tain 'd ; 
Foi'ests were set on fire — but hour by 

hour 
Tliey fell and faded — and tiie crackling 

trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was 

black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon tliem ; some lay 

down 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some 

did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, 

and smiled : 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd 

up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the 

dust. 
And gnasli'd their teeth and howl'd : the 

wild birds shriek'd 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
And flap tlieir useless wings ; the wild- 
est In-utes 
Came tame and tremulous : and vipers 

crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the mul- 
titude. 



BYRON 



213 



Hissing', but stingless — they were slain 

for food ! 
And War, which for a moment was no 

more, 
Did ghit himself again : — a meal was 

bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Goi'ging himself in gloom : no love was 

left: 
All earth was but one thouglit — and that 

was death 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as 

their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were de- 
voured, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save 

one. 
And he was faithful to a corse, and 

kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men 

at bay. 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping 

dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought 

out no food. 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the 

hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he 

died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but 

two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
Tlie dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy 

things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
And shivering scraped with their cold 

skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and tlieir feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and iieheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, andshriek'd, 

and died — 
Even of tlieir mutual hideousness they 

died . 
Unknowing who he was upon whose 

brow 
Famine liad written Fiend. The world 

was void, 
The populous and the powerful was a 

lump, 
Seasonless, lierbless, treeless, manless, 

lifeless, 



A lump of death — a cliaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood 

still. 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent 

depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal : 

as thej^ drop]i*d 
They slept on tlie abyss without a 

surge — 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in 

their grave, 
The moon, their mistress, had expired 

before ; 
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant 

air, 
And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had 

no need 
Of aid from them — She was the Uni- 
verse. 
July, ISIG. December 5, 1816. 

PROMETHEUS 

TiTAX ! to whose immortal ej'es 

Tlie sufferings of mortality. 

Seen in their sad reality. 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent sufi:ering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The sufl'ocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee tlie strife was given 
Between the sulfering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot 
kill ; 

And the inexorable Heaven, 

And the deaf t3'ranny of Fate, 

The ruling principle of Hate, 

Which for its pleasure doth create 

The things it may annihilate. 

Refused thee even the boon to die ; 

The wretched gift eternity 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 

All that the Thunderer wrung from 
thee 
Was liut the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appense him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance. 



14 



BRITISH POETS 



And evil dread so ill dissembled, 
That in his hand tlie lightnings 
trembled. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengtlien Man with liis own mind ; 
But baffled as tliou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and re])ulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not 
convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit: 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pin-e source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and liis resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense. 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant wliere it dare defy. 
And making Death a Victorv. 

Juhj, IS 16. December, 1816. 

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 

Rousseau — Voltaire— our Gibbon — and 
De Stael— 
Leman ! these names are worthy of thy 

shore. 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert 
thou no more 
Their memory thy remembrance would 

recall : 
To them tliy banks were lovely as to 
all. 
But they liave made them lovelier, for 

the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in tlie 
core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt tlie wise and wondrous ; 
but by thee 
How much mure, Lake of Beauty I do 
we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er tliy crystal sea, 
Tlie wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 

Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory 
real ! 
July, 1S16. December 5, 1816. 



MANFRED 



A DRAMATIC POEM 



"There are more things in heaven and earth, 
Horatio, 
Thau are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



dkamatis pekson.e 

Manfred 

Chamois Hunter 

Abbot of St. Maurice 

Manuel 

Herman 

Witch of the Alps 

Arimanes 

Nemesis 

The Destinies 

Spirits, &c. 
Tlie Scene of the Drama is amongst the 
Higher Alps — partly in the Castle of 
Manfred, and partly in the Moun- 
tains. 



ACT I 



Scene I. — Manfred alone. — Scene, a 
Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but 

even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Whi(;h then lean resist not : in my heart 
Tliere is a vigil, and these ejes but close 
To look within ; and j^ct I live, and bear 
The asiiect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the 

wise ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they Avho know tlie 

most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal 

truth, 
Tlie Tree of Knowledge is not that of 

Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not : I have done men good, 
And I have met with good even among 

men — 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
And none have baffled, many fallen be- 
fore me — 



BYRON 



215 



But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 
Have been to nie as rain unto the sands. 
Since that all-nameless hour. 1 have no 

dread, 
And feel the curse to liave no natural fear, 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with 

hopes or wishes. 
Or lurking love of something on tlie earth. 
Now to my task.— 

Mysterious agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I liave sought in darkness and in 

light— 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and 

dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom tlietops 
Of mountains inaccessible ai"e haunts. 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar 

things — 
I call upon ye by tlie written charm 
Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! 

Appear ! [A pause. 

They come not yet. — Now by the voice 

of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by tlie claims 

of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! Appear ! 

Appear! [^4 pan.se. 

If it be so — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birtliplace in a star con- 

demn'd. 
The burning wreck of a demolisli'd 

world, 
A wandering liell in the eternal spnce ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my 

soul. 
The thouglit which is within me and 

around me, 
I do compel ye to my will — Appear ! 

[ ^4 stay is seen at the darker end 
of the gallery : if is stationary ; and a 
voice is Jieard singing. 

First Spirit 

Mortal ! to thy bidding liow'd. 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twilight builds. 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
Witli the azure and vermilion. 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridilen : 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 



Second Spirit 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of moun- 
tains ; 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are foi'ests braced, 

The Avalanche in liis hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst TJiou ? 

Third Spirit 

In the blue depth of the waters, 

Wliere tlie wave hath no strife. 
Where the wind is a stranger. 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells. 
Like the storm on tlie surface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To tlie Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit 

Wiiere the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higlier ; 
Where tlie roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth. 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Tliy spell hath subdued me. 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit 

I am the Rider of the wind, 

The stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

' Twill sink ere night be past, 



2l6 



BRITISH POETS 



Sixth Spirit 

My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why dotli thy magic torture me with 

light ? 

Seventh Spirit 

The star whicli rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
Its course was free and regular, 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Witliout a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high. 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence boi-n — 
Tliou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power (which is not tliine, 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend, 
Wliere these weak spirits round thee bend 
And paidey with a thing like thee — 
What wouldst thou. Child of Clay ! with 
me ? 

The Seven Spirits 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, 
winds, tliy star. 
Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of 
Clay! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits 
are — 
What wouldst thou with us, son of 
mortals — say ? 

( Man. Jor"[etf Illness— — 

First Sjririt. Of what — of wliom — and 

why ? 
Man. Of that w^hich is within me ; 
read it there — 
Ye know it. and I cannot utter it. 
Spirit. We can but give thee that 
which we pos.sess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the 

power 
O'er earth — the whole, or portion — or a 

sign 
Whicli shall control tlie elements, where- 
of 
We are tlie dominators, — each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

3Ian. Oblivion, self-oblivion ! 



Can ye not wring from out tlie hidden 

realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our 
skill ; 
Bat — thou may'st die. 
jl/(t?i. Will deatli bestow it on me ? 
Spirit. We are immortal, and do not 
forget ; 
We are eternal : and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou 
answer'd ? 
Man. Ye mock me — but the power 
which brouglit ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not 

at my will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean 

spark, 
Tlie lightning of my being, is as bright. 
Pervading, and far darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though 

coop'd in cla.y ! 
Answer, or I will teach you what I nin. 
Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; 
our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 
Man. Why say yo so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine 
essence be as ours. 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do 
with us. 
3Ian. I then havecall'dye from your 
realms in vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Sa}', 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us ; ask again ; 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and 

length of days ■ 

Man. Accursed! wliat have I to do 
with days ? 
They are too long alreadJ^ — Hence — be- 
gone ! 
Spirit. Yet pause : being heret- our 
will would do tliee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in 
thine eyes ? 
Man. No, none : yet stay — one mo- 
ment, ere we part, 
I would behold ye' face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy 

sounds. 
As music on the waters : and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star : 
But ni)tliiiig n\ore. Approach me as ye 

are. 
Or one, or all, in vour accustoni'd forms. 



BYRON 



217 



Spirit. We liave no foi'ins, beyond 
the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
Man. I have no choice ; there is no 
form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such 

aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — 
Come ! 
Seventh Spirit (appearing in the shape 
of a beautiful female figure). Be- 
hold ! 
Mail. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness cind a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy, I will clasp 
thee, 

And we again will be 

[Tlie figtire vanishes. 
My heart is crusli'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 

(A voice is heard in the Incantation 
lohich follows.) 

When the moon is on tlie wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass. 

And tlie meteor on tlie grave. 
And the wisp on the morass ; 

When the falling stars are shooting. 

And tiie answer'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 

Sliall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though tiiy slumber may be deep 
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
There are sliades which will not v.-inish. 
There are thoughts thou canst not 

banish ; 
By a power to thee unknown, 
Thou canst never be alone ; 
Tliou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
And for ever slialt thou dwell 
In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me witli thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And when in tliat secret dread 
Thou hast turii'd around thy head, 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot. 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 



And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall night deny 

All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 
An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
From thy own heart I then did wring 
Tlie black blood in its blackest spring ; 
From thy own smile I snatch'd the 

snake, 
For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
From thy own lip I drew the charm 
Which gave all these their chiefest 

harm ; 
In proving every poison known, 
1 found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 
By that most seeming virtuous eye. 
By thy shut soul's hyj)ocrisy ; 
By the perfection of thine art 
Which pass'd for human thine own 

heart ; 
By thy deliglit in others' pain. 
And by thy brotherhcxxl of Cain, 
I call upon tliee ! and compel 
Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote tliee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in tliy destiny ; 

Though thy death sliall still .seem near 

To tliy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around tliee. 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and bi'ain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 

Scene II 

The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, 
Morning. — Manfred alone upon the 
Cliffs. 
Man. The sj^irits I have raised aban- 
don me, 
Tlie spells which I have studied baffle me, 
Tlie remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on suiierlmman aid ; 
It hath no power upon tlie past, and foi' 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in 
darkness, 



:iS 



BRITISH POETS 



It is not of my search. My mother 

Earth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, 

ye Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bt ght eye of the universe, 
Tliat openest over all. and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my 

heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme 

edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink be- 
neath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to 

shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would 

bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — whei-efore do I pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is 

firm : 
Tliere is a power upon me which with- 
holds. 
And makes it my fatality to live, — 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This bai-renness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have 

ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minis- 
ter, [An eagle jyasses. 
Whose happy flight is highest into 

heaven. 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I 

should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou 

art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but 

thine 
Yet pierces downward, on ward, or above. 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself ! 
But we, who name oui'selves its sover- 
eigns, we. 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence 

make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty 

will. 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are— what they name not to 
themselves. 



And trust not to each other. Hark ! the 

note, [The Shepherd's pipe in 

the distance is heard. 

The natural music of the mountain 

reed 

For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the saun- 
tering lierd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, 

that I were 
Tlie viewless spirit of a loveh^ sound, 
A living voice, a bi'eatliing harmony, 
A boddess enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from beloio a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble 

feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will 

scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is 

here ? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet 

hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our moun- 
taineers. 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his 

garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this 

distance : 
I will approacli him nearer. 

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be 

thus — 
Gray-liairVl with anguisii, like these 

blasted pines. 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, 

branchlass, 
A blighted trunk upon a cur.sed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
Having been otherwise ! now furrowd 

o'er 
With wrinkles, ploughed by moments, — 

not by }■ ears, — 
And hours, all tortured into ages — 

hours 
Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of 

ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws 

down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and 

crush me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye 

pass. 



BYRON 



2 ig 



And only fall on things that still would 

live ; 
On the young nourishing forest, or the 

hut 
And hamlet of tlie harmless villager. 
C. Him. Tlie mists begin to rise from 

up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may 

chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 
Man. The mists boil up around the 

glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and 

sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep 

Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living 

shore, 
Heap'd witli the damn'd like pebbles. — 

I am giddy. 
C. Hun. I must approach him cau- 

tiousl.y ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen. 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with 

the sliock 
Rocking their alpine brethren ; filling 

up . 

The ripe green valleys with destruction s 

splinters : 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist and 

made 
Their fountains find another channel — 

thus. 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosen- 
berg- 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hnn. Friend! have a care. 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for tiie 

love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that 

brink ! 
Man. (not hearing hhn). Such would 

have been for me a fitting tomi) ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their 

deptli ; 
They had not tlien been strewn upon the 

rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus 

they shall be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye open- 
ing lieavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! 

take these atoms ! 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from 

the cliff, the Chamois Hunter 



seizes and retains him with a sud- 
den grasp. 
C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though 

aweary of thy life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty 

blood : 
Away with me 1 will not quit my 

hold. 
Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, 

grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains 

whirl 
Spinning around me 1 grow blind 

What art thou ? 
C.Hun. I'll answer that anon. Away 

with me — 
The clouds grow thicker there — now 

lean on me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this 

staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me 

your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — 

well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour : 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer foot- 
ing, 
And something like a pathway, which 

the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't is 

bravely done — • 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow 

me. 

[As they descend the rocks with 
difficulty, the scene closes. 

ACT II 

Scene I. — A Cottage amongst the Ber- 
nese Alps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause^thou 

must not yet go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at 

least : 
When thou art better, I will be tiiy 

guide — 
But whither? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further 

guidance 
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee 

of high lineage — 
One of tlie many chiefs, whose castled 

crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of 

these 



BRITISH POETS 



May call thee lord ? I only know their 

portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old 

halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to 

their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these 

is thine ? 
Man. No matter. 
C. Him. Well, sir, pardon me the 

question. 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my 

wine ; 
'Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has tliaw'd my veins among our 

glaciers 
Let it do thus for tliine — Come, jilodge 

me fairly. 
Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon 

the brim ! 
Will it tlien never — never sink in the 

earth ? 
C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy 

senses wander from thee. 
Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the 

pure warm streani 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers. 

and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had 

one heart. 
And loved each other as we should not 

love. 
And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
Coloring the clouds, that shut nie out 

from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
C. Hun. Man of strange words, and 

some half-maddening sin. 
Which makes thee peo[ile vacancy, 

whatever 
Thy dread and sufferance be. there's 

comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly 

patience — 
Man. Patience and patience ! 

Hence — that word was made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of 

prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like 

thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Tlianks to heaven ! 

T would not be of tliine for tlie free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine 

ill. 
It must lie borne, and these wild starts 

are useless. 



Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — 

I live. 
C. Hun. This is convnlsion, and no 

healthful life. 
Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived 

many years. 
Many long years, but they are nothing 

now 
To those which I must number : ages — 

ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still 

unslaked ! 
C. Hun. Why. on thy brow the seal 

of middle age 
Ilath scarce been set ; I am thine elder 

far. 
Man. Think'st thou existence dotli 

depend on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights im- 
perishable. 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the 

shore. 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
lUirren and cold, on wliicli the wild 

waves break. 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and 

wrecks , 
Rocks and tlie salt-surf weeds of bitter- 
ness. 
C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet 

I must not leave him. 
3Ian. I would I were — for then the 

things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. Wliat is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st 

upon ? 
3Ian. Myself, and thee — a peasant of 

the Alps — 
Thy liumble virtues, hospitable home. 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, ami 

free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent 

thoughts ; 
The days of health, and nights of sleep ; 

thy toils. 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green 

turf. 
And thy grandchildren's love for epi- 

ta]ih ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul wasscorch'd al- 
ready ! 
C. Hun. And wouldst thou then ex- 
change thy lot for mine ? 



BYRON 



221 



Man. No, friend ! I would not wronjij 

thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretcliedly, 'tis wtill to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to 

dream, 
But perish in their slumber.. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

Tliis cautious feeling for anotlier's ])ain, 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not 

so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd 

revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no. no ! 

My injuries came down on those who 

loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never 

quelled 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thj'self ; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not — 

But can endure tliy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and 

thanks for thee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me 

not — 
I know 111}'' path — the mountain peril's 

past: 
And once again I charge thee, follow 
, not ! [Exit Manfred. 

Scene H 

^4 lower Valley in the Alps. — ^4 Cataract. 

Enter Manfred. 

It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still 

arcli 
The torrent with tlie many hues of 

heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving 

column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
And fling its lines of foaming lightalong. 
And to and Tro, like tiie pale courser's 

tail. 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode hy Death, 
As told in tlie Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of love- 
liness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
And witii the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call 
her. 



[Manfred takes some of the zoater 
■into the palm of his Jutnd, and 
flings it into the air, muttering the 
adjuration. After a ixiuse, tlie 
Witch of the Alps W.s-e.s beneath 
the arch of the sunbow of the tor- 
rent. 

Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 

And tlazzling eyes of glory, in whose 
form 

The cliarms of eartli's least mortal 
davighters grow 

To an unearthly stature, in an essence 

Of purer elements ; while the hues of 
youth, — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's 
cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of lier mother's 
heart. 

Or tlie rose tints, widcii summer's twi- 
ligiit leaves 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 

The blush of earth embracing with her 
heaven — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make 
tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends 
o'er thee. 

Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 

Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 

Wiiichof itself shows immortalit3% 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 

Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers 
l)erinit 

At times to commune with them — if 
that he 

Avail him of his spells — to call thee 
thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers wliich give 
thee power ; 

I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 

And deeds of good and ill, exti'etne in 
both. 

Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 

I have expected this — what wouldst thou 
with me ? 
]\[an. To look upon thy beauty — noth- 
ing further. 

The face of the earth hath madden'd me, 
and I 

Take refuge in lier mysteries, and i)ierce 

To the abodes of those who govern her — 

But they can nothing aid me. I have 
sought 

From them what thej^ could not bestow, 
and now 

I search no further. 



BRITISH POETS 



Witch. Wliat could be the quest 

Which is not in the power of the most 

powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it? 'twere in 

vain. 
Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips 

utter it. 
3Iaii. Well, though it torture nie, 'tis 

but tlie same ; 
My pang sliall find a voice. From mj' 

youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of 

men. 
Nor look'd upon tlie earth with human 

eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not 

mine. 
The aim of their existence was not 

mine ; 
My JoySi i»y griefs, my passions, and my 

powers, 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the 

form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
Nor midst tiie creatures of clay tliat 

girded me 
Was there but one who — but of her anon. 
I said witli men, and with the thoughts of 

men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead 
My joy was in the wilderness. — to 

bi"eathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's 

top, 
Where tlie birds dare not build, nor in- 
sect's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into tlie toi'rent, and to roll along 
On tlie swift whirl of tlie new breaking 

wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving- 
moon, 
The stars and their development ; or 

catcli 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew 

dim ; 
Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered 

leaves. 
While Autumn winds were at their even- 
ing song. 
These were my ])astimes. and to be alone; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one. — 
Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded back to them. 
And was all clay again. And then I tlived, 



In my lone wanderings, to the caves of 

death. 
Searching its cause in its eff'ect ; and 

drew 
From wither'd bones, and skull, and 

heap'd up dust, 
Conclusions nio.st forbidden. Then I 

pass'd 
Tlie nights of j^ears in sciences untaught 
Save in the old time ; and with time and 

toil. 
And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air. 
And spirits that do coinpass air and 

earth. 
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
Mine e^'es familiar with Eternity, 
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
He who from out their fountain dwell- 
ings raised 
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, 
As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge 

grew 
Tl\e thirst of knowledge, and the power 

and joy 
Of this most bright intelligence, until — 
Witch. Proceed. 
Man. Oh ! I but thus prolcng'd my 

words. 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of 1113^ heart's 

grief — 
But to my task, I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or 

being. 
With whom I wore the chain of human 

ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me; 
Yet there was one — 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 
Man. She was like me in lineaments ; 

her ej'es. 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very 

tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like 

to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into 

beauty : 
She had the same lone thoughts and 

wanderings, • 

The quest of hidden knowledge, and a 

mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers 

than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — whicii I had 

not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humilitv — and that I never had. 



BYRON 



223 



Her faults were mine — her virtues were 

her own — 
I loved her, and destroy'd lier ! 

Witch. With thy liand ? 

Man. Not witli my hand, but heart, 

which broke her lieart ; 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have 

shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood 

was shed ; 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch And for this — 

A being of tlie race thou dost despise. 
The order, which thine own would rise 

above. 
Mingling with us and ours, — thou dost 

forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and 

shrink'st back 

To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, 

since tiiat hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in mj' 

sleep, 
Or watch my watcliings — Come and sit 

by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more. 
But peopled witli the Furies ; — I have 

gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
Tl)en cursed myself till sunset ; — I liave 

pray 'd 
For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied 

me. 
I liave affronted death — but in tlie war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
And fatal things pass'd harmless ; the 

cold liand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
Back by a single hair, which would not 

break 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — wliich one day 

was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me 

back 
Into the gulf of m3'unfatliom'd thought. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetful- 

ness 
I souglit in all, save where 'tis to be 

found, 
And that I have to learn ; my sciences. 
My long-pursued and superhuman art. 
Is mortal here : I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live for ever. 

W^itcii. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 



Must wake the dead, or lay me low with 

them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be tlie last. 
Witcli. That is not in my province ; 

but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy 

wishes. 
Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and 

whom ? the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the 

slave 
Of tliose who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all? 

Hast tliou no gentler answer ? — Yet be- 
think thee. 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 
Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! I may retire then — 

say ! 
Man. Retire ! 

[Tlie Witch disaji pears. 
Man. (alone). We are the fools of time 

and terror : Days 
Steal on us, and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathingour life,anddreadingstilltodie. 
In all tlie days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling 

heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick 

with pain. 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no i^resent, we can number 
How few— how less than few — wherein 

the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws 

back 
As from a stream in winter, though the 

chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
Tlie sternest answer can but be tlie Grave, 
And that is nothing. If tliey answer 

not 

The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and tlie Spartan Monarch 

drew 
From the Bj^zantine maid's unsleeping 

spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he .slew 
Tliat which he loved, unknowing what 

he slew. 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd 

in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia 

roused 



224 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlie Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her 

wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, bvit fulfiU'd. 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
Tliat which I love would still be beauti- 
ful, 
Happy and giving happiness. What is 

slie ? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for ray 

sins— 
A tiling I dare not think upon — or noth- 
ing. 
Within few liours I shall not call in 

vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the tiling I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my 

heart. 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — Tlie night 
approaches. [Exit. 

Scene III 

The Summit of the Jungfraii Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising bi'oad, and round, and 

bright ; 
And here on snows, where never human 

foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly 

tread. 
And leave no traces : o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put 

on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
Frozen in a moment — a dead whirljjool's 

image : 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
The fretwork of some earthquake — 

where the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing 

by- 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on oui' way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-niglit 
Is our great festival — "t is strange they 

come not. 

A Voice without, .'<inging. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down fruiu the throne. 



La}^ buried in torpor. 
Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued liini with nmnbers — ■ 
He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer 

my care. 
With a, nation's destruction — his fligiit 
and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 

The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and 1 left not a 

mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the 

deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er 

his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by 

the hair. 
And he was a subject well worthy my 

care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea, — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc 

for me ! 

First Destiny, aitsivering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
Jlay dawn oir it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly. 
The' black ])lague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands siiall perish ; 

The living shall ^y from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread. 

Envelop a na,tion ; 
The blest are the dead, 

Who see not the sight 
Of their own desolation ; 

This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my 

doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be re- 
newing ! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies 

The Three. 

Oar hands contain the hearts of men, 
Our footsteps are their graves ; 

We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 



BYRON 



225 



First Des. Welcome ! — ^Where's Nem- 
esis ? 
Second Des. At some great work; 

But wh;it I know not, for m}' liands were 
full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 
My sisters and thyself are slow to-niglit. 
Nem. I was detain'd repairing 
shatter 'd thrones. 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties. 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own re- 
venge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the 

dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for tliey were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for them- 
selves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to 

si)eak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outsfcay"d tlie hour — mount we 
our clouds ! [Exeunt. 

Scene IV 

TJie Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his 
TJirone, a Globe of Fire, surrounded 
by tlie Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our I\Iaster ! — Prince of Earth 
and Air ! 
Who walks the clouds and waters — in 
his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, wliich tear 
Themselves to chaos at his higli 
command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest sliakes 
the sea ; 
He speaketh — and the clouds reply in 
thunder ; 
He gazetli — from his glance tlie sun- 
beams flee ; 
He moveth— earthquakes rend the 
world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
His shadow in the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling 
skies ; 
And planets turn to ashes at liis wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
To him Death pays his tribute ; Life 
is his, 

15 



With all its infinite of agonies — 
And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis! 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on tlie 

earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters 

did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my dut}' ! 
Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we 

who bow 
The Jiecks of men, bow down before his 

throne ! 
lliird Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we 

await His nod ! 
Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are 

thine. 
And all tliat liveth, more or less, is ours. 
And most things wholly so ; still to 

increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands 

our cai'e. 
And we are vigilant. Thy late commands 
Have been fulfiU'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal 

wretch. 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
A Magian of great power, and fearful 
skill ! 
Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, 
slave ! — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, 
and obey ! 
All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and 
til}' condemned clay. 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 
3Ian. I know it ; 

And yet je see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'T will be taught thee, 
il/au. 'T is taught already ; — many a 
night on the earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down 

my face. 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have 

known 
Tlie fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on liis throne 
What the whole earth accords, behold- 
ing not 



226 



BRITISH POETS 



The terror of his glor}- ? — Crouch, I say. 
Man. Bid him how down to that 

which is above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let 

him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The S23ii'its. Cx'ush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 
First Des. Hence ! avaunt ! — • he's 

mine. 
Prince of the Powers invisible ! This 

man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers 

and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have 

been sucli 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspira- 
tions 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the 

earth, 
And they have only taught him what 

we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and 

science 
But an excliange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and lieaven, from which no 

power, nor being. 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is 

exempt, 
Have pierced his heai't, and in their 

consequence 
Made him a thing which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those wlio pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be ; be it so, or not, 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
Nem. What doth he here then ? 
First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know vvliat I have known ; 

and without power 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in 

quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
Nem. What wouldst thou ? 
Man. Tliou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead— my question is for 

them. 
Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will 

avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 
Ari. Yea. 



Nem. Whom wouldst thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis 

Sliadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever tliou art. 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Wliicli return'd to tlie earth, 

Re-appear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 
Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
[TJie Phantom of Astarte rises 
and stands in the viidst. 
Man. Can this be death? tliere's 
bloom upon her clieek : 
But now I see it is no living liue. 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural 

red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish 'd 

leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I shoujd 

dread 
To look upon tlie same — Astarte ! — No. 
I cannot sjjeak to her — but bid her 

speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

3Ian. She is silent. 

And in that silence I am more than au- 
swer'd. 
Nem. My power extends no further, 
Prince of Air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her 
voice. 
Ari. Spirit^ — obey this sceptre ! 
Nem. " Silent still ! 

Slie is not of our order, but belongs 
To tiie other powers. Mortal ! thy quest 

is vain. 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much 
endure — 



BYRON 



227 



Look on me ! the grave hath not 

changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou 

lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not 

made 
To torture thus each other, though it 

were 
The deadliest sin to love as we liave 

loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do 

bear 
This punishment for both — that thou 

wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all liateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immor- 
tality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not wluat I ask, nor what I seek ; 
I feel but wliat tliou art, and what I am ; 
And I would liear yet once before I perish 
The voice whicli was my music — Speak 

to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still 

night. 
Startled tlie slumbering birds from the 

hush'd boughs. 
And woke the mountain wolves, and 

made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed 

name, 
Whicli answer'd me — many things 

answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent 

all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatchM 

the stars. 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain searcli of 

thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the 

earth. 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to 

me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for 

nie : 
I fear them not. and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — 

but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee 

once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred. 
Man. Say on. say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends 

thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 



Man. Yet one word more — am I for- 
given ? 
Plian. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 
Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou 

lovest me. 
Phan. Manfred ! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 
Nem. She's gone, and will not be 
recall'd : 
Her words will be fulfiU'd. Return to 
the earth. 
A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to 
be a mortal 
And seek the things beyond mortalit}'. 
Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mas- 
tereth liimself, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had lie been one of us, he would Jiave 

made 
An awful spirit. 

Ne7n. Hast thou further question 

Of our gi'eat sovereign, or his worship- 
pers ? 
Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! where ? On the 
earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace ac- 
corded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
[£j;if Manfred. 

(Scene closes. ) 

Act III 

Scene I.-^ Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready: 
Here is the key and casket. 

Ma7i. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. {alone). There is a calm vipon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
Tlie merest word tliat ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I 
should deem 



228 



BRITISH POETS 



The golden secret, the sought " Kulou," 

found. 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though 

but once : 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a 

new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note 

down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is 

there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, tlie abbot of St. Mau- 
rice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Man- 
fred! 
Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome 
to these walls ; 
Thy presence hoTiors them, and blesseth 

those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so. Count ! — 

But I would fain confer witli thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would 

my reverend guest ? 
Abbot. Thus, without pi-elude : — Age 
and zeal, my office. 
And good intent, must plead my privi- 
lege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neigli- 

borliood. 
May also be my herald. Rumors 

strange. 
And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed. — I listen. 

Abbot. 'T is said thou boldest converse 
with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of 

man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark 

abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk tlie valley of the shade of 

death. 
Thou communest. I know that with 

mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, tiiou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that tiiy 

solitude 
Is as an ancliorite's, were it but holj'. 



3Ian. And what are they who do 

avouch these things? 
Abbot. My pious brethren— the scared 
peasantry — 

Even tliy own vassals — who do look on 
tliee 

With most unquiet eyes. Thj'^ life's in 
]ieril. 
Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not des- 
troy : 

I would not pry into thj^ secret soul ; 

But if these things be sooth, there .still is 
time 

For penitenc^e and pity : reconcile thee 

With the true cluirch, and through the 
cluirch to heaven. 
3Ia7i. I liear thee. This is my reply : 
whate'er 

I may have been, or am, doth re.st be- 
tween 

Heaven and myself. I shall not choose 
a mortal 

To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 

Against your ordinances ? prove and 
punish ! 
Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of 
punishment. 

But penitence and pardon ; — with myself 

The choice of sucli remains — and for the 
last. 

Our institutions and our strong belief 

Have given me power to smooth the 
path from sin 

To higher hope and better thoughts ; the 
first 

I leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine 
alone ! " 

So saith the Lord, and with all humble- 
ness 

His servant echoes back the awful word. 
Man. Old man ! tliere is no power in 
holy men. 

Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form 

Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast. 

Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 

Tlie innate tortures of that deep despair. 

Which is remorse w^ithout the fear of 
hell. 

But all in all sufficient to itself 

Would make a hell of heaven — can ex- 
orcise 

From out the unbound spirit the quick 
sense 

Of its own sins, wrongs, .sufferance, and 
revenge 

Upon itself : there is no future pang 

Can deal tliat justice on the self-con- 
demn'd 



BYRON 



He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. ' All this is well ; 

Fortius will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look 

up 
With calm assurance to that blessed 

place. 
Which all who seek may win, whatever 

be 
Their earthh' errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall 

be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be 

pardon'd. 
Man. When Rome's sixth emperor 

was near his last. 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound. 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain 

soldier. 
With show of loyal pity, would have 

stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious 

robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and 

said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ? " 
Abbot. And what of this ? 
Man. I answer with the Roman — 
" It is too late ! " 

Abbot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thj^ own soul. 
And tl)y own soul with heaven. Hast 

thou no hope ? 
'Tis strange — even those who do de- 
spair above. 
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on 

earth, 
To which frail twig they cling, like 

drowning men. 
Jfau. Ay — father ! I have had those 

earthly visions, 
And noble aspirations in my youth. 
To make my own the mind of other 

men. 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it miglit be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain -cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more daz- 
zling height. 
Even in the foaming strength of its 

abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that be- 
come 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended 

skies,) 



Lies low but mighty still. — But this is 

past. 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not^ t ame my nature 

down ; for He 
Must serve~wRo'faih would sway ; and 

soothe, and sue. 
And watch all time, and pry into all 

place. 
And be a li\ing lie, who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and 

sucli 

The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, tlmngli to be leader— and of 

w()l\es. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with 

other men ? 
Man. Because my nature was averse 

from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation. Like the wind. 
The red-hot breath of the most lone 

simoom. 
Which dwells but in the desert, and 

sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs 

to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid 

waves. 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly,— such hath 

been 
The course of my existence ; but there 

came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet .so 

young, 
I still would — 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle 

age. 
Without the violence of warlike death : 
Some perishing of pleasure, some of 

study. 
Sonie worn with toil, some of mere 

weariness. 
Some of disease, and some insanity. 
And some of wither'd or of broken 

hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of 

Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many 

names. 



230 



BRITISH POETS 



Look upon me ! for even of all these 

tilings 
Have I partaken; and of all these things, 
One were enough; tlien wonder not that I 
Am what I am. but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am .still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

3Ian. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thine years ; I 

deem 
Thy purpo.se pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlisli ; I would spare 

tliysclf, 
Far more than me, in shunning at tliis 

time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
[Exit Manfred. 
Abbot. This should have been a noble 

creature ; he 
Hath all the energy which would have 

made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisel}' mingled ; as it is. 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness. 
And mind and dust, and passions and 

pure tlioughts 
Mix'd, and contending withovit end or 

order, — 
All dormant or destructive : he will 

perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once 

more 
For such are worth redemption ; and my 

duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though 

surely. [Exit Abbot. 

Scene II 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Ber. My lord, you bade me wait on 
you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. [Manfred advances 
to the Windoio of tlie Hall. 
Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, tlie giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did 

draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, 

ere 
The mystery of thy making was re- 
veal'd ! 



Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain 

tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they 

pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material 

God! 
And representative of the unknown — 
Who cliose thee for his shadow ! Thou 

chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'stour 

ear til 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy 

rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the 

climes. 
And those who dwell in them ! for near 

or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost 

rise. 
And shine, and set in gloiy. Fare thee 

well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first 

glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then 

take [one 

My latest look: thou wilt not beam on 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth 

have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

Scene III 

The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred 
at some distance— A Terrace before a 
Tower — Time, Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel and other Dependents 
of Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after 

night, for years. 
He liatli pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within 

it,— 
So have we all been oft-times; but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter : -I would 

give 
The fee of what I have to come these 

three years. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

3Ianuel. 'Twere dangerous; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st 

already. 



BYRON 



231 



Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly 

and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt 

within the castle — 
How many years is't? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
I served his fatlier, whom he nought re- 
sembles. 
Her, There be more sons in like pre- 
dicament. 
But wherein do they differ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and 

habits ; 
Count Sigismund was px'oud, but gay and 

free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the 

night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the 

rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour. 

But those were jocund times ! I would 

that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they 

look 
As if they had forgotten them, 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change tlieir chieftain first. Oh ! I 

have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some to while away our 

watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
AVhich happen'd hereabouts, by this 

same tower. 
Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I 

do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and 

such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which 

rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,— 
So like that it might be the same ; the 

wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain 

snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his 

tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but witli 

him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings— her, whom of all earthly 

things 



That lived, the only thing he seem'd to 

love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The lady Astarte. his — 

Hush ! who comes here ? 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with liim. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Tliou hast seen liim once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 
Knock, and apprize the Count of my ap- 
proacli. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop— 

I pray vou pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way. 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV 

Interior of tJie Tower. 

Manfred alone. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the 

tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beau- 
tiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the Night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry 

shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a 

night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
The trees which grew along the broken 

arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and 

the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from 

afar 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; 

and 



BRITISH POETS 



More near from out the Caesars' palace 

came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn 

breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they 

stood 
Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars 

dwelt, 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, 

amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd 

battlements. 
And twines its roots with the imperial 

hearths. 
Ivy usurps the laiu'el's place of growth ; 
But the gladiatoi-s' bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, 
While Caesar's chambers, and the Au- 
gustan halls, 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, 

upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
And making that which was not, till the 

place 
Became religion, and the heart rnn o'er 
With silent worship of the great of old, — 
The dead but scejjtred sovereigns, who 

still rule 
Our spirits from their urns. 

'Twas such a night ! 
' T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take 

wildest flight 
Even at tlie moment when they should 

array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approacli ! 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
B3^ its abruptness — all it liath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in tlie effect 
May light upon your head — could I say 

heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or 

prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wan- 

der'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 
3Ian, Thou know'st me not ; 



My days are number'd, and my deeds re- 
corded : 
Retire, or "twill be dangerous — Away ! 
Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace 

me? 
Man. Not I ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 

Man. Look there ! 

What dost thou see? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there I say. 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what 
thou seest ? 
Abbot. That whicii should shake me, 
but I fear it not : 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
Like an infernal god, from (jut the earth ; 
His face vvrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry.clouds : he stands be- 
tween 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not 
harm thee — but 
His siglit may shock thine old limbs into 

palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply- 

Never — till I have battled with this 

fiend : — 
AVhat doth he here ? 

Man. Wh}- — ay — what doth lie here ? 

I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! wliat with 

guests like these 

Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 

AVhy doth he gaze on thee, and thou on 

him ? 
Ah ! lie unveils his aspect : on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven : from his 

eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
Avavmt ! — 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. Come ! — 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? 

answer ! — speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — 

Come ! 'tis time. 
Man. I am prepared for all things, but 
deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent 
thee here ? 
Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! 

Come ! 
Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than 
thine. 



BYRON 



'■33 



And striven with thy masters. Get thee 
lience ! 
Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — 

Away ! I say. 
Man. I knew, and know my hour is 

come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I '11 die as I liave lived — alone. 
Spirit. Then I must summon up my 

brethren. — Rise ! 

[Other Spirits rise up. 
Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — 

A vaunt ! I say ; 
Ye liave no power where piety hath 

power. 

And I do charge ye in the name 

Sjnrit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and 

thine order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain : tliis man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! 

Away ! 
3Iau. I do def J' ye, — though I feel my 

soul 
Is ebbing from me, j'et I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly 

breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthlj^ 

strengtli 
To wrestle, tliough with spirits ; what 

ye take 
Shall be ta'eu limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this tlie Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? Can it be that tliou 
Art thus in love with life? the very life 
Winch made thee wretched ! 

3fan. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

M}^ life is in its last hour. — tiiat I know. 
Nor would redeem a moment of that 

hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy sijrrounding angels ; mj^ past 

power. 
Was purcliased by no compact witii thy 

crew. 
But by superior science — penance, dar- 
ing, 
And lengtli of watching, strength of 

mind, and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the 

earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by 

side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 



Sjiirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee ? 
Must crimes be punish'd but by other 

crimes, [hell ! 

And greater criminals? — Back to thy 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I 

feel ; [know : 

Thou never shalt possess me, that I 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain 

from thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Renuital for its good or evil thoughts,^ — 
Is its own origin of ill and end 
And its own place and time : its innate 

sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things with- 
out. 
But is absnrbVl in s ufferance or in joy. 
Born from the Know|f^r)g-f;i or us own 



"Esert. 



Thou didst hot tempt me, and thou 

couldst not tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy 

prey- 
But was my own destroyer and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled 

fiends ! — 
The hand of death is on me — but not 

yours ! [The Demons disappear . 
Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy 

lijis are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasp- 
ing throat 
The accents rattle : Give thy prayers to 

heaven — 
Pray — albeit bvit in thought, — but die not 

thus. 
Man. 'T is over — my dull eyes can 

fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the 

earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare 

thee well ! 
Give me thy hand. 
Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the 

heart — ■ 
But vet one praver— Alas ! how fares it 

with thee ? 
ilfaw. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult 

to die. [Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He's gone — liis soul hath ta' en 

its earthless flight ; 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is 

gone. 
September, ISIG — May, 1S17. June 16, 

1817. 



234 



BRITISH POETS 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

M}^ boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigli to those who love me, 
And a smile to tliose who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Tliough the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Wei'e't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Siiould be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
July, IS 17. 1831. 

FROM CHILDE HAROLD. 

CANTO IV 

I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of 

Sighs ; [Stanza 1 

A palace and a prison on each hand : 

I saw from out the wave her structures 

rise 
As from the stroke of tlie enchanter's 

wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings 

expand 
Around me, and a djing Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a sub- 
ject land 
Look'd to tlie winged Lion's marble piles. 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on 
her hundred isles ! 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with lier tiai-a of proud towers 
At airy distance, witli majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers ; 
And such she was ; — her daughters had 

their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaust- 
less East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In iiurple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their 
dignity increased. 



In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the 

ear : 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 

here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth 

not die. 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was 

dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, the masque of 

Italy ! 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of miglity shadows, whose dim forms 

despond 
Above tlie dogeless city's vanish 'd sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn 

away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all 

were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which 

Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits sup- 
plied. 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering tlie heart whose early flowers 

have died. 
And with a fresher growth replenishing 
the void. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of 
war, . ' [St. 16 

Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the 

car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the 

reins 
Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his cap- 
tive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for free- 
dom and his strains. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were 
thine, 



BYRON 



'■35 



Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should liave cut the 

knot 
Whicli ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy 

lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen 

should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy 

watery wall. 

I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the 

mart ; 
And Ot\va}% Radcliffe, Schiller, Shake- 
speare's art. 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even 

so. 
Although I found her thus, we did not 

part. 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Tlian when she was a boast, a marvel 
and a sliow. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and 

thought. 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or 

sought ; 
And of tlie happiest moments which 

were wrouglit 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice ! have their 

colors caught : 
Tliere are some feelings Time cannot 

benumb. 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now 

be cold and dumb. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and 
stand [St. 25 

A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a 

land 
Whicli ivas the mightiest in its old com- 
mand. 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly 

hand ; 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the 

free. 
The beautiful, the brave, the lords of 
earth and sea, 



The commonwealth of kings, the men of 
Rome ! 

And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 

Thou art the garden of the world, the 
home 

Of all Art yields, and Nature can de- 
cree ; 

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 

Thy very weeds are beautiful, tliy waste 

More rich than otlier climes' fertility ; 

Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 

With an immaculate charm which can- 
not be defaced. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night ; 
Sunset divides the sky with her ; a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine 

height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is 

free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to 

be, — 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity, 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's 

crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island 

of the blest ! 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With lier o'er half the lovely heaven ; 

but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and re- 
mains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian 

hill. 
As Day and Night contending were, 

until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently 

flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, wliere their hues 

instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and 

glass'd witliin it glows, 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, 

from afar. 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its 

hues. 
From the rich sun.set to tlie rising star. 
Their magical variety difl'use : 
And now tliey change ; a paler shadow 

strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting 

day 
Dies like the dolphin, v»'honi each pang 

imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 



236 



BRITISH POETS 



The last still loveliest, — till — 't is gone 
— and all is gray. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast [St. 42 
The fatal gift of beaut3% which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and 

past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd 

by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of 

flame. 
Oh, God ! tliat thou wert in thy naked- 
ness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and 

couldst claim 
Tliy riglit, and awe the robbei's back, 

who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears 

of thy distress ; 

Tlien might'st thou more apjial ; or, less 

desired. 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For tliy destructive charms ; then, still 

untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents 

pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the 

hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's 

sword 
Be tli}^ sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of 

friend or foe. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other 

land [St. 47 

Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from 

side to side ; 
Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy 

hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our 

guide ; 
Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for tlie keys of 

heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of lier parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 

driven. 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be 

forgiven. 

Oh Rome ! mv country ! city of the 
soul ■ [St. 78 

The orphans of the heart must turn to 
thee, [trol 

Lone motlier of dead empires ! and con- 



In their shut breast their petty misery. 

What are our woes and sufferance ? 
Come and see 

The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 
way 

O'er steps of broken thrones and tem- 
ples, Ye ! 

Whose agonies are evils of a daj- — 

A world is at our feet as fragile as our 
clay. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless 

woe ; 
An empt}^ urn within her wither'd 

hands, 
Whose lioly dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
TJie Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilder- 
ness ? 
Rise, with tliy j^ellow waves, and mantle 
her distress. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, 

Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt ujjon tlie seven-hill'd city's 

pride ; 
Slie saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs 

ride. 
Where tlie car climb'd the Capitol ; far 

and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a 

site : 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar 

light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is 

doubl}' night? 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
And Freedom find no champion and no 

child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and un- 

defiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the 

wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the 

roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature 

smiled 
On infant Washington? Has Earth no 

moi"e 
Such seeds within lier bi'east, or Europe 

no such shoi'e ? 



BYRON 



237 



Where is the rock of Triumph, the high 

place [St. 113 

Wliere Rome embraced her heroes ? 

where the steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's 

Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors 

heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field 

below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions 

sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents 

glow. 
And still the eloquent air breathes — 

burns with Cicero ! 

Arches on arches ! as it were tliat Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one 

dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams 

shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here 

to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless 

mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 

assume 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye 

of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous 

monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is 

given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time 

hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath 

leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is 

a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages 

are its dower. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 

lu murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd ap- 
plause. 

As man was slaughter' by his fellow- 
man. 

And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, 
but because 

Such were the bloody Circus' genial 
laws, 



And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 

not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the 

maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed 

spot ? 
Both are but theatres whei'e the chief 

actors i"ot. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie [St. 140 
He leans upon his hand — his manly 

brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop'd liead sinks gradually 

low — 
And through his side the last drops, 

ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by 

one. 
Like the fli'st of a thunder-shower ; and 

now 
The arena swims around him — he is 

gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which 

hail'd the wretch who won. 

He heard it. but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far 

away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube 

lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at 

play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, 

their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
All tliis rush'd with his blood — Shall he 

. expire 
And unavenged ? Arise ! ye Goths, and 

glut your ire ! 

But here, where Murder breathed her 

bloody steam : 
And here, wliere buzzing nations choked 

the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain 

stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame 

or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a 

crowd, 
My voice sounds much — and fall the 

stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls 

bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem 

echoes strangely loud. 



238 



BRITISH POETS 



A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been 

rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder 'd, or but 

clear'd ? 
Alas! developed, opens tlie decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form isnear'd : 
It will not bear the brig litness of the day, 
Wliich streams too much on all years, 

man, have reft away. 

But when the rising moon begins to 

climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses 

there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the 

loops of time. 
And the low niglit-breeze waves along 

the air 
Tlie garland-forest, which the gray walls 

wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Csesar's 

head ; 
When the light shines serene but doth 

not glare. 
Then in tliis magic circle i-aisethe dead : 
Heroes liave trod this spot — 'tis on their 

dust ye tread. 

But wliere is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 

The being wlio upheld it through the 
past ? [St. 164 

Metliinks lie cometh late and tarries long. 

He is no more — these breathings are his 
last ; 

His wanderings done, his visions ebbing 
fast 

AjuI he himself as nothing : — if he was 

Aught but a phantasy, and could be 
class'd 

With forms which live and suflfer — let 
that pass — 

His sliadow fades away into Destruc- 
tion's mass. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, 

and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads tlie dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phan- 
toms ; and the cloud 
Between us sinks, and all which ever 

glow'd. 
Till Glory's self is twiliglit. and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on tlie verge of darkness ; rays 



Sadder than saddest night, for they dis- 
tract the gaze. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 

To gather what we shall be when the 

frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than 

this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of 

fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more sliall hear, — but never 

more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made 

the same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart 

whose sweat was gore. 



But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And lie and I must part, — so let it be — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look vipon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and 

me ; 
And from the Alban Mount we now be- 
hold 
Our friend of youth, tliat Ocean, which 

when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we folio vv'd on till the 
dark Euxine roU'd 

Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
Long, though not very many — since 

have done [St. 170 

Their work on both ; some suffering 

and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; 
We have had our reward , and it is here, — 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as 

dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what 

is clear. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling- 
place. 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ! Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rare- 
ly be our lot. 



BYRON 



239 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I 

steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with tlie Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot 

all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean 

—roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 

vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his 

control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery 

plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 

remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 

groan. 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, 

and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy 
fields 

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake liim fx'oin thee ; the vile 
strength he wields 

For earth's destruction thou dost all de- 
spise. 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the 
skies. 

And send'st him, shivering in thy play- 
ful spray 

And howling, to his Gods, where haply 
lies 

His petty home in some near port or bay 

And dashest him again to earth : — there 
let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls. 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 

quake. 
And monarclis tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 

make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Gf lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 

flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, 

which mar 



Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of 
Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all 

save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, wliat 

are they ? 
Thy waters wash'd them power while 

they were free. 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores 

obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their de- 
cay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so 

thou ; — 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' 

play, 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

brow : 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 

rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time. — 
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, 

or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and 

sublime, 
The image of eternity, the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
Tlie monsters of the deep are made ; 

each zone 
Obeys tliee ; thou goest forth, dread, 
fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my 

joy 

Of youthful sports was on tliy breast to 

be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from 

a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to 

me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
]\Iade them a terror — 'twas a pleasing 

fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I 

do here. 

My task is done, my song hath ceased, 

my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell sliould break of this protracted 

dream. 



240 



BRITISH POETS 



The torch shall be extinguish'd which 

hath lit 
My niidinght lamp — and what is writ, is 

writ ; 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not 

now 
That whicli I have been — and niv visions 

flit 
Less palpably before nie — and the glow 
Wliich in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, 
faint, and low. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath 

been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — 

farewell ! 
Ye ! who have traced tlie Pilgrim to the 

scene 
Which is his last, if in vour memories 

dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye 

swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop- 
shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the 

pain , 
If such tbei"e were — with yoji, the moral 

of his strain. 

June 20— July 20, 1S17. 1818. 

DON JUAN 

DEDICATION 

Bob Southey ! You 're a poet — Poet- 
laureate, 
And representative of all the race ; 
Although 't is true that you turnVl out a 
Tory at 
Last, — yovus has lately been a com- 
mon case : 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are 
ye at? 
With all the Lakers, in and ovit of 
place ? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a 
Pye; 

" Which pye being open'd they began to 
sing " 
(This old song and new simile holds 
good). 
" A dainty dish to set before tlie King," 
Or Regent, who admires such kind of 
food ; — 
And Colei'idge, too, has lately taken 
wing, 



But like a hawk encumber'd with his 
hood, — 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
I wish he would explain his Explanation. 

You, Bob ! are I'ather insolent, you 
know. 
At being disappointed in j'our wish 
To supersede all warblers here below. 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 

And then you overstrain yourself, or so. 

And tumble downward like the flying 

fish 

Gasping on deck, because you soar too 

high. Bob, 
And fall for lack of moisture quite 
a-dry, Bob ! 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Ex- 
cursion " 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred 
pages). 
Has given a sample from the vasty ver- 
sion 
Of his new system to perplex the 
sages ; 
'T is poetry — at least by his assertion, 
And may appear so when tlie dog-star 
rages — 
And he who understands it would be able 
To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 

You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclu- 
sion 
From better company, have kept your 
own 
At Keswick, and through still continued 
fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have 
grown 
To deem as a most logical conclusion. 

That poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
There is a narrowness in such a notion. 
Which makes me wish you'd change 
your lakes for ocean. 

I would not imitate the petty thought. 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
For all the glory your conversion 
brought. 
Since gold alone should not have been 
its price. 
You have your salarj^ ; was 't for that 
you wrought? 
And Wordsworth has his place in the 
Excise. 
You're shabby fellows — true — but poets 

still. 
And dulv seated on the immortal hill. 



BYRON 



241 



Your bays may liide tlie baldness of your 
brows — 
Perliaps souie virtuous blushes ; — let 
theui go — 
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross 
below, 
Tiie field is universal, and allows 

Seo2je to all such as feel the inherent 
glow ; 
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore and 

Crabbe will try 
'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian 
Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged 
steed. 
I wish your fate may jaeld ye, when she 
chooses. 
The fame you envy, and the skill you 
need ; 
And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full 
meed 
Of merit, and complaint of present days 
Is not the certain path to future praise. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright 
reversion) 
Has generally no great crop to spare it, 
he 
Being only injured by his own asser- 
tion ; 
And although here and there some glori- 
ous rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immer- 
sion, 
The major part of such appellants go 
To — God knows where — for no one else 
can know. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 

Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his 

wrongs. 

And makes the word " Miltonic " mean 

•' sublime,''^ 

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs. 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the 

Son, 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

Tliink'st thou, could he — the blind Old 
Man, — arise. 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze 
once more 
16 



The blood of monarchs with his prophe- 
cies. 
Or be alive again — ^again all hoar 
With time and trials, and those helpless 
eyes, 
And heartless daughters — worn— and 
pale — and poor ; 
Would he adore a sultan "^ lie obey 
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis- 
creant ! 
Dabbling its sleek young hands in 
Erin's gore 
And thus for wider carnage taught to 
pant, 
Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister 
shore. 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could 
want, 
With just enough of talent, and no 
more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitinaatelj^ vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not 
praise. 
Nor foes — all nations — condescend to 
smile ; 
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can 
blaze 
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless 
toil, 
That turns and turns to give the world a 

notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual mo- 
tion. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
And botching, patching, leaving still 
behind 
Something of which its masters are 
afraid. 
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be 
confined. 
Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all man- 
kind — 
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends 

old chains, 
With God and man's abhorrence for its 
gains. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind. 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and 
bind. 



242 



BRITISH POETS 



Deeming the chain it weai-s even men 
may fit, 
Eutropius oi: its many masters — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in 

ice. 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

Where shall I turn me not to vieio its 
bonds, 
For I will never feel them ; — Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
Beneatli the lie this State-thing 
breathed o'er thee — 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green 
wounds. 
Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for 
me. 
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies 

still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I i^roceed to ded- 
icate. 
In honest simple verse, this song to 
you. 
And, if in flattermg strains I do not pred- 
icate, 
'T is that I still retain my " buflf and 
blue ; " 
My politics as yet are all to educate : 

Apostasy's so fashionable, too. 
To keep one creed's a task grown quite 

Herculean : 
Is it not so, my Torv. Ultra-Julian ? 
September, ISIS. July 15, 1819. 

FROM CANTO I 

POETICAL COMMANDMENTS 

If ever I should condescend to prose, 
I'll write poetical commandments, 
which [St. 204 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all 
those 
That went before ; in these I shall en- 
rich 
My text with many things that no one 
knows, 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
I'll call the woi'k " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
Or, Every Poet his oivn Aristotle." 

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dry den, 

Pope ; 
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, 

Coleridge, Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all 

hope, 



The second drunk, the third so quaint 

and mouthy : 

With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is some- 

wliat drouthy : 

Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, 

nor 
Conamit — flirtation with the muse of 
Moore. 

Tliou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's 
Muse, 
His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his ; 
Tliou shalt not bear false witness like 
" the Blues" — 
(There's one, at least, is ver}^ fond of 
this) ; 
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what 
I choose ; 
This is true criticism, and you may 
kiss — ■ 
Exactly as you please, or not — the rod : 
But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 



LABUNTUR ANNI 

" Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventd 

Consule Planco," Horace said, and so 
Sav I ; by which quotation there is 
meant a [St. 212 

Hint that some six or seven good years 
ago 
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the 
Brenta) 
I was most ready to return a blow, 
And would not brook at all tliis sort of 

thing 
In my hot youth — when George the 
Third was King. 

But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 

(I wonder wliat it will be like at forty ? 

I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 

My heart is not much greener ; and. in 

short, I 

Have squandered my whole summer 

while 't was May, 

And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 

Have spent my life, botli interest and 

principal. 
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul 
invincible. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more on 

me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like 

dew, 

Wliich out of all the lovely things we see 

Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 



BYRON 



243 



Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the 
bee. 
Think'st thou the honey with those ob- 
jects grew ? 
Alas ! "t was not in them, but in thy power 
To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

No more — no more — Oli ! never more, my 
heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my uni- 
verse ! 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
Thou canst not be my blessing or my 
curse : 
The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 
And in thy stead I've got a deal of 

judgment, 
Though heaven knows how it ever found 
a lodgment. 

My days of love are over ; me no more 
The charms of maid, wife, and still less 
of widow. 
Can make the fool of which they naade 
before, — 
In short, I must not Idad the life I did 
do; 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is 
o'er. 
The copious use of claret is forbid too. 
So for a good old-gentlemanl}- vice, 
I think I must take up with avarice. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
Before the shrines of Sori'ow, and of 

Pleasure ; 
And the two last have left me many a 

token 
O'er which reflection may be made at 

leisure ; 
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, 

I've spoken, 
" Time is, Time was, Time's past : " — a 

chymic treasure • 
Is glittering youth, which I have spent 

betimes — 
My heart in passion, and my head on 

rhymes. 

What is the end of fame ? 't is but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill 
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in 
vapor ; 
For this men write, speak, preach, and 
heroes kill. 
And bards burn what they call their 
" midnight taper," 
To have, when the original is dust, 



A name, a wretched picture, and worse 
bust. 
Canto I, September, 1818. July 15, 1819. 

FROM CANTO II 

THE SHIPWRECK 

'TwAS twilight, and the sunless day 

went down [St. 49. 

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
Which, if witlidrawn, would but disclose 

the frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was 

shown. 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 
And tlie dim desolate deep : twelve days 

had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was 

here. 

Some trial had been making at a raft. 

With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
A sort of thing at whicii one would have 
laugh'd. 
If any laughter at such times could be, 
Unless with people who too much have 
quaff 'd , 
And have a kind of wild and horrid 
glee. 
Half epileptical, and half hj'sterical : — 
Tlieir preservation would have been a 
miracle. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen- 
coops, spars. 
And all things, for a chance, had been 

cast loose 
That still could keep afloat the struggling 

tars. 
For yet they strove, although of no 

great use : 
There was no light in heaven but a few 

stars, 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with 

their crews ; 
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
And, going down head-foremost — sunk, 

in short. 

Tiien rose from sea to sky the wild fare- 
well- 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood 
still the brave — 
Then some leap'd overboard with dread- 
ful yell. 
As eager to anticipate tiieir grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a 
hell. 



244 



BRITISH POETS 



And down she suck'd with her the 
whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples witli his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

And first one universal shriek there 
rusli'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a 
crash 
Of echoing thunder ; and then all was 
hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorse- 
less dash 
Of billows ; but at intervals there gushVl, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splasli, 
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 



How long in his damp trance young 
Juan lay [St. 111. 

He knew not, for the earth was gone 
for him. 

And time had nothing more of night 
nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses 
dim ; 

And how this heavy faintness passVl 
away 
He knew not, till eacli painful pulse 
and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing 
back to life. 

For Death, thougli vanquish'd, still re- 
tired with strife. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
For all was doubt and dizziness ; he 
thought 
He still was in the boat, and had but 
dozed. 
And felt again with his despair o'er- 
wrought, 
And wish'd it death in which he had 
reposed, 
And tlien once more his feelings back 
were brought. 
And slowly by his swimming eyes was 

seen 
A lovely female face of seventeen. 

'Twas bending close o'er his, and the 

small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for 

breath ; 
And chafing him, the soft warm hand 

of youth 



Recall'd his answering spirits back 

from deatli ; 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to 

soothe 

Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a 

sigli 
To these kind efforts made a low repl}' . 

Tlien was tlie cordial pour'd, and mantle 

flung 
Ax'ouud his scarce-clad limbs ; and the 

fair arm 
Raised liigher the faint head which o'er 

it hung ; 
And her transjiarent cheek, all pure 

and warm, 
Pillow'd Ins death-like forehead ; then 

she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by 

every storm ; 
And watcli'd with eagerness each throb 

that drew 
A sigli from his heaved bosom — and 

hers, too. 

And lifting him with care into the cave. 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — 
one 
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less 
grave. 
And more robust of figure — then begun 
To kindle fire, and as the new flames 
gave 
Light to the rocks tliat roof'd them, 
whicli the sun 
Had never seen, tlie maid, or whatsoe'er 
She was. appear'd distinct, and tall, 
and fair. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of 
gold, 
Tliat sparkled o'er the auburn of her 
hair. 
Her clustering liair, wliose longer locks 
were roll'd 
In braids behind ; and though her 
stature were 
Even of the highest for a female mould. 
They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in 
her air 
There was a something which bespoke 

command. 
As one who was a lady in the land. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her 
eyes 
Were black as death, their laslies the 
same hue. 



BYRON 



245 



Of downcast length, in whose silk 

shadow lies 
Deepest attraction ; for when to the 

view 
For til from its raven fringe the full 

glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest 

arrow flew ; 
'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours 

liis length. 
And hurls at once liis venom and his 

strength. 

Her brow was white and low, !ier cheek's 

pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set 

sun ; 
Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make 

us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was 

one 
Fit for the model of a statuary 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's 

done — 
I've seen much finer women, ripe and 

real, 
Than all the nonsense of their stone 

ideal). 

I'll tell you wliy I saj^ so, for 't is just 
One should not rail without a decent 
cause : 
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she 
was 
A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
Yield to stern Time and Nature's 
wrinkling laws. 
They will destroy a face which mortal 

thouglit 
Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel 
wrought. 

And such was she, the lady of tlie cave: 
Her dress was very different from the 
Spanish, 
Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
For, as you know, the Spanish women 
banish 
Bright hues wheii out of doors, and yet, 
while wave 
Around them (what I liope will never 
vanisli) 
Tlie basquina and tlie mantilla, thej' 
Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

But with our damsel this was not the 
case : 
Her dress was many-color'd, finely 
spun ; 



Her locks curl'd negligently round her 
face. 
But through them gold and gems pro- 
fusely shone : 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious 
stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what 
was shocking. 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no 
stocking. 

The other female's dress was not unlike. 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 

Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 

Was coarser ; and her air, though 

firm, less free ; 

Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her 

eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller 
size. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd 
liini both 
With food and raiment, and those soft 
attentions. 
Which are — (as I must own) — of female 
growth. 
And have ten thousand delicate inven- 
tions : 
Tliey made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom men- 
tions. 
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd 

since Homer's 
Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it teas the 
coast— [St. 181 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
The sands untumbled, the blue waves 
untost. 
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's 
cry. 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow 
crost 
By some low rock or shelve, that made 

it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being 
gone. 
As I liave said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brotlier, guardian, she had 
none. 
Save Zoe, who, although with due pre- 
cision 



246 



BRITISH POETS 



She waited on her lady witli tlie sun. 
Thought daily service was her only 

mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her 

long tresses, 
And asking now and then for cast-off 

dresses. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the 

rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind tlie azure 

hill. 
Which then seems as if the whole earth 

it bounded. 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, 

and still. 
With the far mountain-crescent half 

surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm 

and chill. 
Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
With one star sparkling through it like 

an eye. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand 
in hand, 
Over the sliining pebbles and the shells. 
Glided along the smooth and harden'd 
sand. 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 
Work VI by the storms, yet work'd as it 
were plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and 
cells. 
They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd 

by an arm. 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple 
charm. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose float- 
ing glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and 
bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea be- 
low, 
Whence the broad moon rose circling 
into sight ; 

They heard the waves splash, and the 
wind so low. 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting 
light 

Into each other — and, beholding this. 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a 
kiss ; 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and 
love, 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays, 
Into one focus, kindled from above ; 



Such kisses as belong to early days, 
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in 
concert move. 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a 
blaze. 
Each kiss a lieart-quake, — for a kiss's 

strengtli, 
I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs en- 
dured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt 
they never reckon'd : 

And if they had, they could not have 
secured 
The sum of their sensations to a second ; 

They Jiad not spoken ; but they felt al- 
lured. 
As if their souls and lips each other 
beckon "d. 

Which, being join'd,like swarming bees 
tliey clung — 

Their hearts tlie flowers from whence 
tlie honey sprung. 

The}' were alone, but not alone as they 
Who shut in chambers think it lone- 
liness ; 
The silent ocean, and tlie starlight bay, 
The twilight glow, wliich momently 
grew less. 
The voiceless sands, and dropjjing caves, 
that lay 
Around them, made them to each other 
press. 
As if tliere were no life beneath tlie sky 
Save theirs, and that their life could 
never die. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on tliat lone 
beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night ; 
they were 
All in all to each other ; though their 
speecii 
Was broken words, they thought a 
language there, — 
And all the burning tongues the passions 
teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
Of natvire's oracle — first love, — that all 
Which Eve lias left her daughters since 
her fall. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 

For all of theirs upon that die is thrown. 
And if "t is lost, life hath no more to 
bring 



BYRON 



247 



To tliesn but mockeries of the past alone, 
And tlieir revenge is as the tiger's 

spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, 

as real 
Torture is theirs, what tliev inflict they 

feel. 

They are right ; for man, to man so oft 
unjust, 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery isall their trust; 
Taught to conceal, their bursting 
hearts despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
Buys them in marriage — and what 
rests beyond ? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless 

lover, 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and 
all's over. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or 
prayers. 
Some mintl their household, others 
dissipation. 
Some runaway, and but exchange their 
cares. 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous 
station ; 
Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 

Theirs being an unnatural situation. 
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
Some play the devil, and tlien write a 
novel. 

Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew 

not this : 
Haidee was Passion's child, born 

where the sun 
Showers triple liglit, and scorches even 

the kiss 
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was 

one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was 

his 
Who was her chosen : what was said or 

done 
Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought 

to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love beyond, — her heart 

beat here. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, 
tliat beat ! 
How much it costs us! yet each rising 
throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watcsli to rob 
Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 



Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has 

a tough job 
To make us understand each good old 

maxim. 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 

'em. 

And now 't was done — on the lone shore 
were plighted 
Their hearts ; tlie stars, their nuptial 
torches, shed 
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted ; 
Ocean their witness, and the cave 
tlieir bed. 
By their own feelings hallow'd and 
united. 
Their priest was Solitude, and they 
were wed : 
And they were happy , 'for to their young 

eyes 
Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

Oh, Love ! of whom great Caesar was the 
suitor, 
Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in 
whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be 
neuter — 
(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the 
wave) — 
Oh, Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state 
precarious. 
And jestest with the brows of might- 
iest men : 

Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
Have much employ 'd the muse of his- 
tory's pen : 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely 
various. 
Such worthies Time will never see 
again ; 

Yet to these four in three things the 
same luck holds, 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and 
cuckolds. 

Thou mak'st philosophers ; there's Epi- 
curus 
And Aristippiis, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure 
us. 
How pleasant were the maxim (not 
quite new ), 



BRITISH POETS 



" Eat, drink, and love ; what can the 

rest avail us V " 
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 
And should he have forgotten her so 
soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most 
truly a 
Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, 
the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever 
newly a 
Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh fea- 
tures 
Have such a charm for us poor human 
creatures? 

I hate inconstancj' — I loathe, detest. 
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal 
made 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his 
breast 
No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my con- 
stant guest, 
And yet last night, being at a masque- 
rade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from 

Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a 
villain. 

But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 
And wliisper'd. " Think of every 
sacred tie ! " 
" I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
"But then her teeth, and then, oh, 
Heaven ! her eye ! 
I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid. 

Or neither — out of curiositv." 
"Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so 

Grecian 
(Though she was masqued then as a fair 
Venetian) ; 

" Stop ! " so I stopp'd. — But to return : 
that which 
Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature's 
rich 
Profusion with j'oung beauty covers 
o'er 
Some favor'd object ; and as in the niclie 

A lovely statue we almost adore. 
This sort of adoration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau 
ideal." 



'T is the perception of the beautiful, 
A fine extension of the faculties, 

Platonic, universal, wonderful. 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd 
througli the skies. 

Without which life would be extremely 
dull : 
In short, it is the use of our own e3'es. 

With one or two small senses added, just 

To hint that flesh is form'd of liery dust. 

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we alwaj^s could perceive 
In the same object graces quite as kill- 
ing 
As wlien she rose upon us like an Eve, 
'T would save us many a heart-aclie, 
many a shilling 
(For we must get them anyhow, or 
grieve), 
AVhereas, if one sole lady pleased for- 
ever. 
How pleasant for the heart, as well as 
liver. 

The heart is like the sky, a i^art of 

heaven, 
But changes night and day,. too, like 

the sky ; 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be 

driven. 
And darkness and destruction as on 

high : 
But wlien it hath been scorch'd. and 

pierced, and riven. 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the 

eye 
Pours forth at last the heart's blood 

turn'd to tears. 
Which make the English climate of our 

years. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a 
while, 
That all the rest creep in and form a 
junction, 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil. 
Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, 
compunction. 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this 

entrail. 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire 
call'd " central."' 

In tlie mean time, without proceeding 
more 
In this anatomy, I've fiiiish'd now 



BYRON 



'■49 



I 



Two liiijidred and odd stanzas as before. 
That being about the number I'll 
allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twentj'- 
four ; 
And, lajnng down my pen, I make my 
bow. 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and tlieirs with all who deign 
to read. 
Canto II., December. ISIS, January, 
ISID. July 15, 1819. 

FROM CANTO III 

THE ISLES OF GREECE 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
Where burning Sappho loved and 
sung, 
Wliere grew the arts of war and peace, — 
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus 
sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 

The hero's \\a,v\), the lover's lute. 
Have found the fame your shores refuse: 

Their place of birtli alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathoia — 
And Marathon looks on tlie sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dream'd that Greece might still be 
free : 

For staiiding on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He coimted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they ? a nd wiiere art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The "heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 



Must ive but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must loe but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead I 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to tiie Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet : 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and tiie manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — bvit served Pol3^crates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyi'ant of the Chersonese 

Was fieedom's best and bravest 
friend ; 
T7ioft3'rant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hovir would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were svire to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhai)s, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks. 

Thej' have a king who buys and sells ; 
In native swords and native ranks, 

The only hope of courage dwells : 
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance l)ene9th the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes si line ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 



25° 



BRITISH POETS 



My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save tlie waves and I, 

May liear our mutual murmvirs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should 
have sung, St. 87 

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece 
was young. 
Yet in tliese times he might have done 
much worse : 
His strain display'd some feeling — right 
or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of others' feeling ; but they are such 

liars. 
And take all colors — like the hands of 
dyers. 

But words are things, and a small drop 
of ink, 
Falling like dew. upon a thouglit, pro- 
duces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps 
millions, think ; 
Tis strange, the shortest letter which 
man uses 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting 
link 
Of ages ; to what straits old Time re- 
duces 

Frail man when paper — even a rag like 
this. 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's 
his ! 

And when his bones are dust, his grave 
a blank, 
His station, generation, even his na- 
tion. 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration. 
Some dull MS. oblivion long lias sank. 
Or graven stone found in a barrack's 
station 
In digging the foundation of a closet. 
May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
'Tis something, notliing, words, il- 

usion wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's 

style 



Than on the name a person leaves 
behind : 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to 
Hoyle ; 
The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giv- 
ing knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine : 
An independent being in his day — 
Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and 
wine ; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
We're told this great high priest of all 
the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — 

odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord 
Bacon's bribes ; 
Like Titus' youth, and Capsar's earliest 
acts ; 
Like Burns (whom Doctor Curi'ie well 
describes) ; 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although 
truth, exacts 
These amiable descriptions from the 
scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

All ai'e not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantis- 
ocrasy : " 
Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who 
then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with de- 
mocracy ; 
Or Coleridge, long before liis flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aris- 
tocracy ; 
When he and Southey, following the 

same path. 
Espoused two partners (milliners of 
Bath). 

Such names at pi'esent cut a convict 
figure. 
The very Botany Bay in moral geo- 
graphy : 
Their royal treason, renegado rigor. 
Are good manure for tlieir more bare 
biography. 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, 
is bigger 



BYRON 



251 



Than any since the birthday of typo- 
graphy ; 

A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Ex- 
cursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intel- 
lect ; 
But Wordsworth's poem^ and his fol- 
lowers, like 
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her 
sect. 
Are things which in this century don't 
strike 
The public mind, — so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale 

virginities 
Have proved but dropsies, taken for 
divinities. 

But let me to my story : I must own, 
If I have any fault, it is digression, 

Leaving my people to jjroceed alone. 
While I soliloquize beyond expression: 

But these are my addresses from the 
throne, 
Wliich put off business to the ensuing 
session : 

Forgetting each omission is a loss to 

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

I know that what our neighbors call 
" longueurs,'' 
(We 've not so good a ivord, but have 
the thing, 
In that complete perfection which in- 
sures 
An epic from Bob Southey every 
Spring—) 
Form not the true temptation which 
allures 
The reader ; but 't would not be hard 
to bring 
Some fine examples of the eiiopee. 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

We learn from Horace, " Homer some- 
times sleeps ; " 
We feel without him, Wordsworth 
sometimes wakes, — 
To show with what complacency he 
creeps, 
With Jiis dear " Wagoners" around 
his lakes. 
He wishes for "a boat" to sail the 
deeps— 
Of ocean ? — No, of air; and then he 
makes 



Another outcry for " a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal 
plain, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his 
" Wagon," 
Could he not beg the loan of Cliarles's 
Wain ? 
Or pra}^ Medea for a single dragon ? 
Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 
He fear'd his neck to venture sucli a 
nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the 

moon. 
Could not the blockhead ask for a bal- 
loon ? 

"Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Wag- 
ons ! " Oh ! ye shades 
Of Pope and Dry den, are we come to 

this? 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast 

abyss 
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these 

Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves 

may liiss — 
The " little boatman " and his "Peter 

Bell " 
Can sneer at him who drew "Achito- 

phel ! " 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the 
slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all 
retired : 
The Arab lore and poet's song were 
done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 
The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twiliglit's sky ad- 
mired ; 
Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is 
worthiest thee ! 

Ave Maria ! blessed be tlie hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I 
so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest 
power 
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and 
soft. 
While swung the deep bell in tlie distant 
tower. 
Or the faint dying daj-hymn stole 
aloft. 



252 



BRITISH POETS 



And not a breatli crept through tlie rosy 

air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirrVl 

with prayer. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 
Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's 
above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fg-ir ! 
Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- 
niiglity dove — 
What though 't is but a pictured image 

strike, 
That painting is no idol, — 't is too like. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
In nameless print — that I have no de- 
votion ; 
But set those persons down with me to 
pray. 
And you sliall see who has the proper- 
est notion 
Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
My altars are the mountains and the 
ocean. 
Earth, air, stars. — all that springs from 

the great Whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive 
the soul. 

Sweet hour of twiliglit ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent sliore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial 
wood. 
Rooted wliere once the Adrian wave 
flow'd o'er. 
To where the last Ctesarean fortress 
stood, 
Evergreen forest ! wliicli Boccaccio's 
lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground 

to me. 
How have I loved the twilight hour and 
thee ! 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
Making their summer lives one cease- 
less song. 
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's 
and mine. 
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs 
along ; 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
His hell-dogs, and tlieir chase, and the 
fair throng 
Which learn'd from this example not to 

fly 



From a true lover, — shadow^'d my mind's 

eye. 

Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good 

thing.s — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry 

cheer, 
To the young bird tlie parent's brooding 

wings, 
Tlie welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd 

steer ; 
Whate'erof peace about our hearthstone 

clings. 
Whatever our household gods protect 

of dear, 
Are gather'd round us by thy look of 

rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the 

mother's breast. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and 
melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first 
day 
Wlien they from their sweet friends are 
torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his 
way 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to weep the dying day's 
decaj' : 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
Ah ! surely nothing dies but something 
mourns ! 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Wliich ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
Of nations freed, and the world over- 
joy'd, 
Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon 
his tomb : 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not 
void 
Of feeling for some kindness done, when 

power 
Had left the wretch an uncorrui^ted hour. 

But I'm digressing ; what on earth has 
Nero. 
Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
To do with the transactions of my hero. 
More than such madmen's fellow- man 
— the moon's ? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
And I grown one of many ' ' wooden 
spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Can- 
tabs please 
To dub the last of honors in degrees). 



BYRON 



= 53 



I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'T IS being too epic, and I must cut down 
(In copying) tliis long canto into two ; 

They'll never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced 

few ; 

And then as an improvement 't will be 

shown : 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the 

critic is 
From Aristotle passim. — See ^ro///7(^7/<;. 

Canto III. 1S19-1S20. August 8, 1831. 

FROM CANTO IV 

Nothing so difficult as a beginning [.St. 1 

In poesy, unless perhajis the end ; 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems 
winning 
The race, he sprains a wing, and down 
we tend, 
Like Lucifer wlien hurl'd from heaven 
for sinning ; 
Our sin the same, and liard as his to 
mend. 
Being pride, which leads tlie mind to soar 

too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we 
are. 

But time, which brings all beings to their 
level. 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps 
the devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast : 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins 
revel, 
We know not this — the blood flows on 
too fast : 
But as the torrent widens towards the 

ocean. 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
And wish'd that others held the same 
opinion ; 
They took it up when my days grew more 
mellow. 
And other minds acknowledged my 
dominion : 
Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and Imagination droops her 
pinion. 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my 

desk 
Turns what was once romantic to bur- 
lesque. 



And if I laugh at any mortal thing. 
' T is that I may not weep ; and if I 
weep, 
'T is that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apatliy. for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's 
spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will 
sleep : 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
A mortal mother would on Letlie fix. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the 
land, 
And trace it in this poem every line ; 

I don't pretend that I quite understand 
My own meaning when I would be very 
fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nothing 
plann'd, 
Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the luilf-serious rhyme, 
Who sang when cliivalry was more 
Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giant 
kings despotic : 

But all these, save tlie last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

How I have treated it, I do not know ; 
Perhaps no better tlian they have 
treated me. 
Who have imputed such designs as show 
Not what they saw, but what they 
wish'd to see ; 
But if it gives tliein pleasure, be it so, 
This is a liberal age, and tlioughts are 
free : 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume mv storv here. 
Canto IV. 1819—1820. August 8 , 1821. 

FROM CANTO XI 

LONDON LITERATURE AND SOCIETY 

Juan knew several languages-as well 

He might — and brought them uj) with 

skill, in time [St. 53 

To save liis fame with each a.ccomplish'd 

belle. 

Who still regretted that he did not 

rhyme. 



254 



BRITISH POETS 



There wanted but this requisite to swell 
His qualities(with them) into sublime ; 

Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Ma^via Man- 
nish, 

Both long'd extremely to be sung in 
Spanish. 

However, he did pretty well, and was 
Admitted as an aspirant to all 

The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 
At great assemblies or in parties small, 

He sa\v ten thousand living authors pass, 
That being about their average num- 
eral ; 

Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 

As every paltry magazine can show it^s. 

In twice five years the " greatest living 
poet." 
Like to the champion fisty in the ring. 
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show 
it. 
Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be 
king.— 
Was reckoned a considerable time. 
The grand Napoleon of the realms of 
rhyme. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean 
seems Cain : 
" La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at 
zero. 
Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise 
again : 
But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, 
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey 
Lowe. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Mooi'e 
and Campbell 
Before and after : but now grown more 
holy, 
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or 
wholly : 
And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley 
Powley, 
Who shoes the glorious animal with 

stilts, 
A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 

Still he excels that artificial hard 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though 
the vine 



Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 
Tliat neutralized dull Dorus of the 

Nine ; 
Tiiat swarthy Sporus, neither man nor 

bard ; 
That ox of verse, whoploughs for every 

line : — 
Cambj'ses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The liowling Hebrews of Cybele's 

priest. — 

Then there's my gentle Euphues i wlio, 
they say. 
Sets up for being a sort of moral me : ^ 
He "11 find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out botli. or either, it may be. 
Some persons think that Coleridge hath 
the sway ; 
And Wordswortli has supporters, two 
or three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Sav- 
age Landor " 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's 
gander. 

John Keats, wlio was kill'd off by one 
critique,^ 
Just as he really promised something 
great. 
If not intelligible, without Greek 
Contrived to talk about tlie Gods of 
late. 
Much as they might have been supposed 
to speak. 
Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate; 
'T is strange tlie mind, that very fiery 

particle. 
Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an 
article. 

Tlie list grows long of live and dead pre- 
tenders 
To that which none will gain — or none 
will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time 
renders 

His last award, will have the long grass 
grow 

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless 
cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 



* Barry Cornwall, once called " a moral Byron." 
2 The entirely mistaken idea that Keats' de- 
cline and death were due to the severe criticism 
on his Endi/inion in the Quarterly Review, was 
shared by Shelley, and was generally prevalent 
luitil the publication of Milnes' Lite of Keats. 
See H. Buxton Forman's edition of Keats' 
Works, Vol. IV., pp. 225-273, and Colvin's Life of 
Keats, pp. 124 and 208. 



BYRON 



255 



Their chances ; — they 're too nuinerous, 

like the thirty 
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd 

but dirty. 

This is the literary lower empire, 
Where the pra?torian bands take up 
the matter ; — 
A "dreadful trade," like his who " ga- 
thers samphire," 
The insolent soldiery to soothe and 
flatter, 
With tlie same feelings as you'd coax a 
vampire. 
Now, were I once at home, and in 
good satire, 
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show tliem ivhat an intellectual 
war is. 

I think I know a trick or two, would 

turn 
Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth 

my while 
With such small gear to give myself 

concern : 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 
My natural temper 's really aught but 

stern, 
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a 

smile ; 
And tlien she drops a brief and modern 

curtsy, 
And glides away, assured she never 

hurts ye. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, 
pass'd 
With some small profit through that 
field so sterile, 
Being tired in time, and neither least 
nor last, 
Left it before he had been treated very 
ill; 
And henceforth found himself more 
gaily class'd 
Amongst the higher spirits of tlie day, 
The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 

His morns he pass'd in business — which 
dissected, 
Was like all business, a laborious noth- 
ing 
That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal 
clothing, 
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
And talk in tender horrors of our 
loathing 



All kinds of toil, save for our country's 

good— 
Wliich grows no better, though 't is time 

it should. 

His afternoons he jmss'd in visits, lunch- 
eons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twi- 
liglit hour 

In riding round those vegetable punch- 
eons 
Call'd " Parks." where there is neither 
fruit nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munch- 
ings ; 
But after all it is the only "bower" 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashion- 
able fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with 
fresh air. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the 
world ! 
Then glare the lamps, then whirl the 
wheels, then roar 
Tlirough street and square fast flashing 
cliariots liurl'd 
Like liarness'd meteors ; then along 
tlie floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons 
are twirl'd ; 
Then roll tlie brazen thunders of the 
door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly Paradise of " Or Molu." 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall 
sink 
With the three-thousandth curtsy ; 
there the waltz, 
The only dance which teaches girls to 
think, 
Makes one in love even with its very 
faults. 
Saloon, room, hall, o'erflowbej^ond their 
brink. 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd 

to clitnb. 
And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 

Of the good company, can win a corner, 
A door that's in or boudoir ont of the 
way. 
Where he may fix himself like small 
" Jack Horner," 
And let tlie Babel round run as it may, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 



256 



BRITISH POETS 



Or an approver, tfi- a mere spectator, 
Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

But this won't ilo, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active 
share, 
Must steer with care through all that 
glittering sea 
Of gems and jilumes and pearls and 
silks, to where 
He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft 
air, 
Or proudlier prancing with mercurial 

skill. 
Where Science marshals forth her own 
quadrille. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higlier 
views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's 
bride, 
Let him take care that that which he 
pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
His haste ; im])atience is a blundering 
guide. 
Amongst a people famous for reflection. 
Who like to play the fool with circum- 
spection. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at 
supper ; 
Or if forestall'd, get opposite and 
ogle :— 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always 
upper 
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle. 
Which sits for ever upon memory's 
crupper. 
The gliost of vanish'd pleasures once in 
vogue ! Ill 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single 
ball. 

But tliese precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must 
pursue, 
And watch, and wai'd ; whose plans a 
word too much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 
Or many (for the number 's sometimes 
such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new. 
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, 

or nonsense, 
Pei'mits whate'er they please, or did not 
long: since. 



Our hero, as a hero, young and hand- 
some, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 
Like other slaves of course must pay his 

ransom. 
Before he can escape from so much 

danger 
As will environ a conspicuous man. 

Some 
Talk about poetry, and "rack and 

manger," 
And ugliness, disease, as toil and 

trouble ; — 
I wish they knew the life of a young 

noble. 

They are young, but know not youth — 

it is anticipated ; 
Handsome but wasted, rich without 

a sou ; 
Their vigor in a thousand arms is 

dissipated ; 
Their cash comes from, their wealth 

goes to a Jew ; 
Both senates see their nightly votes par- 
ticipated 
Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' 

crew ; 
And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, 

and whored. 
The family vault receives another lord. 



But "carpe diem, "Juan, " carpe, carpe !" 

To-morrow sees another ra(!e as gay 
And transient and devour'd by the same 
harpy. 
" Life's a poor player," — then " play 
out the play. 
Ye villains ! " and above all keep a sharp 
eye 
Much less on what you do than what 
you say : 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what 
you see. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 
Of what befell our hero in tlie land. 
Which 'tis the common cry and lie to 
vaunt as 
A moral country ? But I hold my 
hand— 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 'tis as well at once to understand 
You are not a moral people, and you 

know it 
Witiiout the aid of too sincere a poet. 



BYRON 



257 



Wliat Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, witli of course tlie due re- 
striction 
Which is required by proper courtesj' ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 
And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 
Tliough every scribe, in some slight 
turn of diction, [doubt 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er 
Tliis — when I speak, I don't hint, but 
speak out. 

WI1 ether he married with the third or 
fourth 
Offspring of some sage husband-hunt- 
ing countess, [worth 
Or whetlier with some vii'gin of more 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial 
bounties) 
He took to regularly peopling Earth 
Of which your lawful, awful wedlock 
fount is,— 
Or whether he was taken in for dam- 
ages, [ages,— 
For being too excursive in his Jiom- 

Is yet within the unread events of tinae. 
Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I 
will back 
Against the same given quantity of 
rhyme, [tack 

For being as much the subject of at- 
As ever yet was any work sublime. 
By those who love to say tliat white is 
black. 
So much the better ! — I may standalone. 
But would not change my free thoughts 
for a throne. 
Canto XI. lS2f2-lS23. August 29, 1823. 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT,i 

BY 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS 

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO EN- 
TITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT 
TYLER " 



" A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 

' Southey published in 1821 a poem called " A 
Vision of Judgment," in which he extolled 
George III. for his personal virtues, and de- 
scribed his reception into heaven. In the Pref- 
ace of this poem he bitterly attacked Byron for 
immorality in his writings. See full accounts 
of the affair in the biographies of Byron and 
Southey. The briefest and best treatment of it 
is in Nidiol's Life of Byron, toward the end of 
Chapter VIII. 

• 17 



PREFACE 

It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes 
many ; " and it hath been poetically observed— 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he 
had no business, and where he never was before, 
and never will be again, the following poem 
would not have been written. It is not impossi- 
ble that it may be as good as his own, seeing 
that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natu- 
ral or acquired, be ivorse. The gross Hattei'y, 
the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, 
and impious cant, of the poem by the author of 
" Wat Tyler," are something so stupendous as to 
form the sublime of himself— containing the 
quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. 
In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous 
Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed 
"Satanic School," the which he doth recom- 
mend to the notice of the legislature ; thereby 
adding to his other laurels the ambition of those 
of an informer. If there exists anywhere ex- 
cept in his imagination, such a School, is he not 
sufficiently armed against it by his own intense 
vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain 
writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to 
have "talked of him; for they laughed con- 
sumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers 
to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that 
they, in their individual capacities, have done 
more good, in the charities of life, to their fel- 
low-creatures, in any one year, than Mr. Southey 
has done harm to himself by his absurdities in 
his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. 
But I have a few questions to ask. 

Istly, Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wat 
Tyler" ? 

2ndly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by 
the highest judge of his beloved England, be- 
cause it was a blasphemous and seditious publi- 
cation ? 

3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, 
in full parliament, " a rancoi-ous renegado ? " 

4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own 
lines on Martin the regicide staring hint in the 
face ? 

And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items 
together, with what conscience dare he call the 
attention of the laws to the publications of 
others, be they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a pro- 
ceeding, its meanness speaks for itself ; but I 
wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither 
more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed 
at a little in some recent publications, as he was 
of yore in the " Anti-Jacobin," by his present 
patrons. Hence all this " skimble-scamble 
stuff" about "Satanic," and so forth. How- 
ever, it is worthy of him — " qualis ab incepto." 

If there is anything obnoxious to the political 
opinions of a portion of the public in the follow- 
ing poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He 
might have written hexameters, as he has writ- 
ten everything else, for aught that the writer 
cared — had they been upon another subject. 
But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, 
whatever were his household virtues, was 
neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inas- 
much as several years of his reign passed in war 
with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the 
aggression upon France, — like ail other exagger- 
ation, necessarily begets opposition. In what- 
ever manner he may be spoken of in this new 



258 



BRITISH POETS 



" Vision," his public career will not be more 
favorably transmitted by history. Of his pri- 
vate virtues (although a little expensive to the 
nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regaid to the supernatural personages 
treated of, I can only say that I know as much 
about them, and (as an honest man) have a bet- 
ter right to talk of them than Robert Southey. 
I have also treated them more tolerantly. The 
way in which that poor insane creature, the 
Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next 
world, is like his own judgment in this. If it 
was not completely ludicrous, it would be some- 
thing worse. I don't think that there is much 
more to say at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate : 
His keys were rustv, and the lock was 
dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late ; 
Not that the place by any means was 
full. 
But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight " 
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger 
pull, 
And "a pull altogether." as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another 
way. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 

ATid hoarse with having little else to 

do. 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. 

Or curb a runaway young star or two. 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal 

blue. 

Si)litting some planet witli its playful 

tail. 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton 
whale. 

The guardiiin seraphs liad retired on 
high. 
Finding their charges past all care be- 
low ; 
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the 
sky 
Save the recording angel's black 
bureau ; 
Who fovmd, indeed, the facts to multi- 
ply 
"With such rapidity of vice and woe. 
Tliat he had stripp'd off both his wings 

in quills. 
And yet was in arrear of liuman ills. 

His business so augmented of late years. 
That he was forced, against his will 
no doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly minis- 
ters,) 



For some resource to turn himself 
about. 
And claim the lielp of his celestial peers. 
To aid liimere he should be quite worn 
out 
By the increased demand for his re- 
marks : 
Six angels and twelve saints were named 
his clerks. 

This was a handsome board — at least 

for heaven ; 
And yet they had even then enough 

to do, 
So many conquerors' cars wei'e daily 

driven. 
So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or 

seven, 
Till at the crowning carnage, Water- 
loo, 
They threw their pens down in divine 

disgust^ 
The page was so besmear 'd witli blood 

and dust. 

This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 
What angels shrink from : even the 
very devil 
On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited witli tlie infernal revel : 
Though he himself liad sliarpen'd every 
sword. 
It almost quench'd his innate tliirst 
of evil. 
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves 

insertion — 
'T is. that he has both generals in re- 
version.) 

Let's skip a few short years of hollow 

peace. 
Which peopled earth no better, hell 

as wont, 
And heaven none — they form the t^a-ant's 

lease, 
Witli nothing but new names sub- 
scribed upon 't ; 
'T will one day finish : meantime the}^ 

increase, 
" With seven heads and ten hoi'ns," 

and all in front. 
Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but 

ours are born 
Less formidable in the head than horn. 

In the first year of freetlom's second 
dawn 
Died George the Third ; altliough no 
tyrant, one 



BYRON 



259 



Who shielded tyrants, till each sense 
withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun ; 

A better farmer ne'er brusli'd dew from 
lawn. 
A worse king never left a realm un- 
done ! 

He died — but left his subjects still be- 
liind, 

One half as mad — and t'other no less 
blind. 

He died ! his death made no great stir 

on earth : 
His burial made some pomp ; there 

was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great 

dearth 
Of aught but tears — save those she<l 

by collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their 

true worth ; 
Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, 

and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic man- 
ners, 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who fiock'd to swell or see 
tiie shovv, 
Who cared about the corpse? The 
funeral 
Made tiie attraction, and the black 
tiie woe. 
Tliere throbb'd not thei-e a thought 
which pierced the pall ; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was 
laid low. 
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
Tlie rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 

Return to what it must far sooner, were 

Tlie natural compound left alone to fight 

Its way back into earth, and fire, and 

air ; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 

WMiat nature made him at his birtli, 

as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied 

clay- 
Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

He's dead — and upper earth with him 
has done ; 

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill. 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will ; 



But Where's the proctor who will ask 
his son ? 
In whom his qualities are reigning 
still. 

Except that household virtue, most un- 
common, 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

" God save the king ! " It is a large 
economy 
In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 
Of those who think damnation better 
still : 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, witii some slight re- 
striction. 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be 
damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
I know my catechism; I know we'x'e 
cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite 
o'erflow; 
I know tliat all save England's church 
have shamm'd. 
And that the other twice two hundred 

churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd 
bad purchase. 

God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can 
wish. 

And not a whit more difficult to damn. 
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd 
fisli, 

Or to tlie butcher to purvey tlie lamb ; 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish. 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost everybody born to die. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 
And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! 
there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of 
late — 
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, 
and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely 
great. 
Which would have made aught save a 
saint exclaim; 
But he. with fii'st a start and then a 
wink, [think! 

Said, " There's another star gone out, I 



26o 



BRITISH POETS 



But ei"6 he could return to his repose, 
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er 
his eyes— 
At whicli St. Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd 
his nose : 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " pri- 
thee rise ! " 
Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, 
as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heav- 
enly dyes : 
To wliich tlie saint replied, " Well, 
wliat's the matter ? 
" Is Lucifer come back with all this 
clatter ? " 

" No," quoth the cherub; " George the 

Third is dead." 
" And who is George the Tliird ? '" re- 
plied the apostle : 
" IMiat George f what Third ?" " The 

king of England," said 
The angel. " Well! he won't find 

kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does lie wear liis 

head ? 
Because the last we saw liere had a 

tustle. 
And ne'er would have got into lieaven's 

good graces. 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ; 
That head of his, wliich could not 
keep a crown 
On earth, yet ventured in my face to 
advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like mj^ 
own : 
If I had had my sword, as I had once 
When I cut ears off, I had cut him 
down ; 
But having but my keys, and not niy 

brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his 
hand. 

" And then he set up such a headless 
howl. 
That all the saints came out and took 
him in; 
And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by 
jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the jiarvenu ! The 
skin 
Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his 
cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd 
his sin, 



So as to make a martyr, never sped 
Better than did this weak and wooden 
head. 

" But had it come up here upon its 
shoulders. 
There would have been a different tale 
to tell : 
The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a 
spell. 
And so this very foolish head heaven 
solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
A nd seems the custom here, to overthrow 
Whatever has been wisely done below." 

The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not 
pout : 
The king who comes has head and all 
entire. 
And never knew much what it was 
about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
And will be judged like all the rest, no 
doubt : 
My business and your own is not to 
inquire 
Into such matters, biit to mind our cue — 
Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

While thus they spake, the angelic cara- 
van. 
Arriving like a rush of might}^ wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the 
swan 
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile 
or Inde. 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them 
an old man 
With an old soul, and both extremely 
blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright 
host 
A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above 
some coast 
Whose barren beach with frequent 
wrecks is paved ; 
His brow was like the deep when tem- 
pest-toss'd ; 
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts 
engi-aved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded 
space. 



BYRON 



261 



As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by liim or Sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself 
within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
And sweated through his apostolic 
skin : 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some sucli other spiritual liquor. 

Tiie very cherubs huddled all together. 
Like birds wlien soars the falcon ; and 
they felt 
A tingling to the tip of every feather. 

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
Around their poor old charge ; who 
scarce knew whither 
His guards had led him, though they 
gently dealt 
With royal manes (for bj^ many stories, 
And true, we learn the angels all are 
Tories). 

As things were in this posture, the gate 
flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of manj'-color'd flame, until its tinges 
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and 
made a new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er tlie North Pole ; the same seen, 

when ice-bound, 
By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's 
Sound." 

And from the gate thrown open issued 

beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of 

Light, 
Radiant with glory, like a banner stream- 
ing 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrow- 

ing fight : 
Bly poor comparisons must needs be 

teeming 
With eartlily likenesses, for here the 

night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, 

saving 
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey 

leaving. 

'Twas the archangel Michael ; all men 

know 
The make of angels and archangels, 

since 
There's scarce a scribbler has not one to 

show, 



From the fiends' leader to the angels' 

prince : 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 

I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their 

merits. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
A goodly work of him from whom all 
glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he 
stood ; 
Before him the young cherubs and 
saints hoary — 
(I say young, begging to be understood 
By looks, not years ; and should be 
very sorry 
To state, they' were not older than St. 

Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little 
sweeter) . 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down 
before 
That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 
The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er 
nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose 
core 
No thought, save for his Master's 
service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

He and the sombre, silent Spirit met — 
They knew each other both for good 
and ill ; 
Such was their power, that neither could 
forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but 
still 
There was a high, immortal, proud 
regret 
In cither's eye, as if 't were less their 
will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their "champ 
clos " the spheres. 

But here they were in neutral space: we 
know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power 
to pay 
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that the " sons of God," like those 
of clay. 
Must keep him company ; and we might 
show 



BRITISH POETS 



From the same book, in how polite a 
way 
The dialogue is held between the Powers 
Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up 
hours. 

And this is not a thenlogic tract, 
To prove with Hebrew and with 
Arabic, 
If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
From out the whole but such and such 
an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of 
trick. 
'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
And accurate as any other vision. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven ; like eastern 

thresholds is 
The place where Death's grand cause is 

ai-gued o'er, 
And souls despatcli'd to that world or 

to this ; 
And tlierefore Michael and the other 

wore 
A civil aspect : tliough they did not 

kiss, 
Yet still between his Darkness and his 

Brightness 
There pass'd a mutual glance of great 

politeness. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern 
beau. 
But with a graceful Oriental bend. 
Pressing one radiant arm just where be- 
low 
The heart in good men is supposed to 
tend ; 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low. 
But kindly ; Satan met his ancient 
friend 
With more hauteur, as miglit an old 

Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich 
civilian. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then raising it, he 
stood 
In act to assert his right or wrong, and 
show 
Cause why King George by no means 
could or should 
Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings, 
endued 



With better sense and hearts, whom his- 
tory mentions, 

Who long have •• paved hell with their 
good intentions." 

Michael began: "What wouldst thou 
with this man. 
Now dead, and brought before the 
■ Lord ? What ill 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race 
began , 
Tliat tliou canst claim him ? Speak ! 
and do thy will. 
If it be just : if in this earthly span 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say. 
And he is thine ; if not, let him have 
way." 

"Michael!" replied the Prince of Air, 

" even here. 
Before the Gate of him thou servest, 

must 
I claim my subject : and will make 

appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
So shall he be in spirit, altliough dear 
To thee and thine, because nor wine 

nor lust 
Wei'e of his weaknesses ; yet on the 

tlirone 
He reign'd o'er millions to serve me 

alone. 

" Look to oiir earth, or rather 7niiie ; it 
was, 
Once, more thy Master's : but I triumph 
not 
In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need lie thou servest envy me my lot : 
With all the myriads of bright worlds 
which pass 
In worship round him, he may have 
foi-got 
Yon weak creation of such paltry tilings: 
I think few worth damnation save their 
kings, — 

" And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord: and even had 
I such an inclination, it were (as you 
Well know) superfluous ; they are 
grown so bad. 
That hell has nothing better left to do 
Than leave them to themselves : so 
much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse. 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I 
worse. 



BYRON 



263 



" Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
When this oki, blind, mad, helpless, 
weak, poor worm 
Began in youth's first bloom and flush 
to reign. 
The world and he both wore a dif- 
ferent form. 
And much of earth and all the watery 
plain 
Of ocean call'd hini king: through 
many a storm 
His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 
For the rough virtues chose tliem for 
their clime. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he 
leaves it old : 
Look to the state in which he found 
his realm, 
And left it ; and his annals too behold, 

Howto a minion flrst hegavetlie hehn; 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
The beggar's vice, which can but over- 
whelm 
The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, 

but glance 
Thine eye along America and France. 

" 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe :) but as a tool 
So let him be consumed. From out the 
past 
Of ages, since mankind have known 
the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls 
amass'd 
Of sin and slaugliter — from the Caesar's 
school. 
Take the worst pupil ; and produce a 

reign 
More drench'd vith gore, more cum- 
ber'd with the slain. 

" He ever warr'd with freedom and tlie 
free : 
Nations as men, home subjects, foreign 
foes, 
So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty ! ' 
Found George the Third their first 
opponent. Whose 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 
With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his houseliold abstinence ; 1 grant 
His neutral virtues, which most mon- 
archs want ; 

" I know he was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling 
lord. 



All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper 
shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for 

those 
Millions who found him what oppres- 
sion chose. 

"The New World shook him off ; the 
Old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if 
not 
Completed : he leaves heirs on many 
thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 
Compassion for liim — liis tame virtues ; 
drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now 

forgot 
A lesson which sliall be re-taught 
them, wake 
Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them 
quake ! 

' • Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
The faith which makes ye great on 
ear til, implored 
A part of tliat vast all they held of old, — • 
Freedom to worship — not alone your 
Lord , 
Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! 
cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not 
abhor'd 
The foe to Catholic participation 
In all the license of a Cliristian nation. 

"True! he allow'd them to pray God ; 

but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the 

law 
Which would have placed them upon 

the same base 
With those who did not hold the 

saints in awe." 
But here Saint Peter started from his 

place. 
And cried, " You may the prisoner 

withdraw : 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this 

Guelph, 
While I am guard, may I be damn'd my- 
self ! 

" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 



;64 



BRITISH POETS 



The azure fields of heaven, of that be 

sure ! " 
"Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to 

avenge 
The wrongs he made your satellites 

endure ; 
And if to this exchange you should be 

given, 
I'll try to coax oui- Cerberus up to 

heaven ! " 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! 
and devil ! 
Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun dis- 
cretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more 
civil ! 
Satan, excuse this warmth of his ex- 
pression, 
And condescension to the vvdgar's level : 
Even saints sometimes forget them- 
selves in session. 
Have you got more to say ? " — " No." — 

" If you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his 
swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric quali- 
ties 
Clouds farther off than we can under- 
stand, 
Although we find him sometimes in 
our skies ; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton men- 
tions 
As one of Satan's most sublime inven- 
tions. 

This was a signal unto such damned souls 
As have the privilege of their damna- 
tion 
Extended far beyond the mere controls 
Of worlds past, present, or to come ; 
no station 
Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of liell assign'd ; but where their incli- 
nation 
Or business carries them in search of 

game, 
They may range freely — being damn'd 
the same. 

Tliey're proud of this — as very well they 
may. 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt 
key 



Stuck in their loins ; or like to an 

"entre" 
Up the back stairs, or such free- 

masonr^^ 
I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
Being clay myself. Let not those 

spirits be 
Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
We know their jjosts are nobler far than 

these. 

When the great signal ran from heaven 
to hell- 
About ten million times the distance 
reckon'd 
From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
How much time it takes up, even to a 
second, 
For every ray that travels to dispel 
The fogs of London, through which, 
dimly beacon'd 
The weathei'cocks are gilt some thrice a 

j^ear, 
If that the summer is not too severe : 

I say that I can tell — 'twas half a min- 
ute ; 
I know the solar beams take up more 

time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they 

begin it ; 
But then their telegraph is less sub- 

blinie. 
And if they ran a race, they would not 

win it 
'Gainst Satan's courier's bound for 

their own clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every 

ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a 

day. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown. a little speck appear'd 

(I've seen a sometiiing like it in the skies 

In the ^gean, ere a squall); it near'd. 

And, growing bigger, took another guise; 

Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and 

steer 'd. 

Or w'o.s steer'd (I am doubtful of the 

grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the 
stanza stammer ; — • 

But take your choice) : and then it grew 
a cloud 
And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a 
crowd 



BYRON 



265 



Of locusts numerous as the heaveus 
saw these ; 
They shadowed with their myriads 
space ; their loud 
And varied cries were like those of 
wild geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose). 
And jealized the phrase of " liell broke 
loose." 

Here crashed a sturdy oath of stout John 
Bull, 
Wlio damned away his eyes as hereto- 
fore : 

There Paddy brogued "By Jasus ! " — 
' ' What's j'our wuU ? " 
The temperate Scot exclaimed : the 
French ghost swore 

In certain terms I shan't translate in 
full, 
As the first coachman will ; and 'midst 
the war, 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to ex- 
press, 

" Our president is going to war, I guess." 

Besides tliere were the Spaniard, Dutch, 
and Dane ; 
In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
Of all climes and professions, years 
and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king's 
reign , 
Bitter as clubs in cards are against 
spades : 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," 

to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me 
or you. 

When Michael saw this host, he first 
grew pale. 
As angels can ; next, like Italian 
twiliglit. 
He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail. 
Or sunset streaming through a Gothic 
skylight 
In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 
Or distant lightning on the horizon by 
night. 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green and 
blue. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan : 
"Why— 
My good old friend, for such I deem 
you, though 



Our different parties make us fight so 
shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 
Our difference is jjolitical, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
You know my great respect for you : 

and this 
Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 

" Wliy, my dear Lucifer, would you 
abuse 
My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell 
produce ; 
'Tis even superfluous, since two hon- 
est, clean. 
True testimonies are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence : if we 
Hear both, 'twill stretch our immor- 
tality." 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of 
view : 
I can have fifty better souls than this 
With far less trouble than we have 
gone through 
Already ; and I merely argued his 
Late Majesty of Britain's case with 
you 
Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
Of him ; I've kings enough below, God 
knows ! " 

Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd 

" multi-faced" 
By multo-scribblingSouthey). " Then 

we'll call 
One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense 

with all 
The rest," quoth Michael: "Who may 

be so graced 
As to speak first ? there's choice 

enough — who shall 
It be?" Then Satan answer'd, "There 

are many : 
But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well 

as any." 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking 
sprite 
Upon the instant started from the 
throng, 
Dress'd m a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick 
long 
By people in the next world ; where 
unite 



266 



BRITISH POETS 



All the costumes since Adam's, right 
or wrong, 

From Eve's fig leaf down to the petti- 
coat. 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My 
friends of all 
The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst 
these clouds ; 
So let's to business : why this general 
call? 
If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
Saint Peter, may I count upon your 
vote ? " 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; 
these things 
Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
Is the tribunal met : so now you 
know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with 
wings," 
Said Wilkes, "are cherubs; and that 
.soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but 

to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he 
blind ? " 

•' He is what you behold him, and his 

doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel 

said ; 
" If you have aught to arraign in him, 

tlie tomb 
Gives license to the humblest beggar's 

head 
To lift itself against the loftiest." — 

" Some," 
Said' Wilkes, " don't wait to see them 

laid in lead. 
For such a liberty— and I, for one. 
Have told them what I thought beneath 

the .sun." 

'■'Above the sun repeat, then, what tliou 
hast 
To urge against him," said the Arch- 
angel. " Why," 
Replied the spirit, " since old scores are 
past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
Besides, I beat him hollow at tlie last. 
With all his Lords and Commons : in 
the sky 



I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

"Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to 
oppress 
A poor unlucky devil withoutasliilling ; 
But tlien I blame the man himself mucli 
less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be 
unwilling 
To see him punish'd here for their excess. 
Since they were both damn'd long 
ago, and still in 
Their place below : for me, I have for- 
given, 
And vote his ' habeas corpus ' into 
heaven." 

" Wilkes," .said the Devil, " I understand 
all this ; 
You turn'd to half a courtier ere you 
died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 
To grow a wliole one on the other side 
Of C'haron's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 
He won't be sovereign more : you've lost 

your labor. 
For at the best he will but be your neigh- 
bor. 

"However, I knew what to think of it. 

When I beheld you in your jesting way, 

Flitting and whispering round about the 

spit 

Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 

His pupil ; I knew what to think, I stCy : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther 

ills ; 
I'll have him gagged — 'twas one of his 
own bills. 

"Call Junius!" From the crowd a 
shadow stalk'd. 
And at the name there was a general 
squeeze. 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but 
to be balk'd. 
As we .shall .see) , and jostled hands 
and knees, 
Like wind compress'd and pent within a 

bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray- 
hair'd figure. 



BYRON 



267 



That look'd as it had been a shade on 
earth ; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 
But nauglit to mark its breeding or its 
birth ; 
Now it wax'd little, then again grew 
bigger, 
With now an air of gloom, or savage 
mirth ; 
But as yon gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to ivhat, none 
could say. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the 

less 
Could tbey distinguish whose the 

features were ; 
The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even 

to guess ; 
They varied like a dream — now here, 

now there ; 
And several people swore from out the 

press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one 

could swear 
He was his father : upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's 

brother : 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but tlie wight 
Mysterious changed his countenance 
at least 
As oft as they their minds ; though in 
full sight 
He stood, the puzzle only was in- 
creased ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 

The moment that you had pronounced 
him one. 
Presto ! his face changed, and he 
was another ; 
And when that change was hardly well 
put on. 
It varied, till I don't think his own 
mother 
(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to 
t'other : 
Till guessing from a pleasure grevA' a task. 
At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would 
seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely 
says 



Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might 
deem 
That he was not even one ; now many 
rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a 
thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on Lon- 
don days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to 
people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer. 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be 
blown ; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'Tis that what Junius we are wont to 

call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

I don't see wherefore letters shovild not 
be 
Written without hands, since we daily 
view 
Them written without heads ; and books, 
we see. 
Are fiird as well without the latter too : 
And really till we fix on somebody 
For certain sure to claim them as his 
due. 
Their author, like the Niger's mouth, 

will bother 
The world to say if there be mouth or 
author. 

"And who and what art thou?" the 
Archangel said. 
"For that you may consult my title- 
page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
'• If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce sliall tell it now." — " Can.st thou 
upbraid." 
Continued Michael, " George Rex, or 
allege 
Aught further ? " Junius answer'd, " You 

had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and 
tomb." 
" Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of 
some past 
Exaggeration ? something which may 
doom 



268 



BRITISH POETS 



Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou 

wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
Of passion?" — "Passion!" cried the 

pliantom dim, 
" I loved mj^ country, and I hated him, 

"What I have written, I have written : 

let 
The rest be on his head or mine ! " so 

spoke 
Old " Nominis Umbra;" and while 

speaking yet. 
Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't 

forget 
To call George Washington, and John 

Home Tooke. 
And Franklin ; " — but at this time tliere 

was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom 

stirr'd. 

At length with jostling, elbovs^ing,, and 
the aid 
Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
Tlie devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey 
cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down 
lie laid, 
" What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 
'tis not a ghost ? " 
" I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would 
think 
Some of his works about his neck were 
chain'd. 
But to the point ; while hovering o'er 
the brink 
Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still 
rain'd), 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
And stooping, caught this fellow at a 

libel- 
No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

" The former is the devil's scriptui'e, and 
The latter yours, good Michael : so the 
affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
I snatch'd him up just as you see him 
there. 
And brought him off for sentence out of 
hand : 
I've scarcely been ten minutes in the 
air — 



At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of 
old. 
And have expected him for some time 
here ; 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 

Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below j our wing, Asmodeus 

dear : 

We had the poor wretch safe (without 

being bored 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

" But since he's here, let's see what he 

has done." 
" Done ! " cried Asmodeus, " he antici- 
pates 
The very business you are now upon, 
And scribbles as if head clerk to the 

Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may 

run. 
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 

prates ? " 
" Let's liear," quoth Michael, " wliat he 

has to say : 
You know we're bound to that in every 

way." 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, 
which 
By no means often was his case below, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, 
and pitch 
His voice into tliat awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 
Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in 
flow ; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would 
stir. 

But ere the spavin 'd dactyls could be 
spurr'd 
Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
To murmur loudly through their long 
array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried, " For God's sake stop, my 

friend ! 'twere best — 
Non Di, non homines — you know the 
rest.'' 

A general bustle spread throughout the 
throng, 



BYRON 



169 



Which seeni'd to hold all verse in detes- 
tation : 
Tlie angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not 
long 
Before, to profit by a new occasion : 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, 

" What ! u'liat ! 
Fife come again ■? No more — no more of 
that ! ■' 

The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a de- 
bate, 
When Castlereagli has been up long 
enough 
(Before he was first minister of state, 
I mean — the slaves hear how) ; some cried 
"Off, off!" 
As at a farce ; till, grown quite des- 
perate, 
The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 
A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, 
which gave 
A smart and sharper-looking sort of 
grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though 
rather grave, 
Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be. 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd 
the noise 
With one still greater, as is yet tlie mode 
On earth besides ; except some grum- 
bling voice, 
Which now and then will make a slight 
inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
Lift up their lungs when fairly over- 
crovv'd ; 
And now the bard could plead his own 

bad cause. 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

He said — (I only give the heads)- — he 
said. 
He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas 
his way 
Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his 
bread, 
Of which he butter'd both sides ; 
' twould delay 



Too long the assembly (he was pleased 
to dread ) , 
And take up rather more time than a 
day, 

To ne,me his works — he would but cite a 
few — 

"Wat Tyler " — " Rliymes on Blen- 
heim " — " Waterloo." 

He had written praises of a regicide ; 
He liad written i^raises of all kings 
whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and 
wide. 
And then against them bitterer than 
ever ; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 
Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas 
clever ; 
Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have 
turn'd his skin. 

He had sung against all battles, and 
again 
In their high praise and glory; he had 
call'd 
Reviewing " the ungentle craft," and 
then 
Become as base a critic as e'er era wl'd — 
Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had 
been maul'd : 
He had written much blank verse, and 

blanker prose. 
And more of both than anybody knows. 

He had written Wesley's life : here 
turning round 
To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write 
yours. 
In two octavo volumes, nicely bovind, 
With notes and preface, all that most 
allures 
The pious purchaser ; and there's no 
ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own re- 
viewers : 
So let me liave the 'proper documents. 
That I may add 3'ou to my otheV saints." 

Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, 
if you, 
With amiable modesty, decline 
My ofl'er, what says Micliael ? There 
are few 
Whose memoirs could be re7ider'd 
more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new 



270 



BRITISH POETS 



As it was once, but I would make you 

shine 
Like your own trun'ipet. B3' tlie way, 

my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well 

blown. 

" But talking about trumpets, here's my 
Vision ! 
Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, 
you shall 
Judge witli my judgment, and by my 
decision 
Be guided who shall enter heaven or 
fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition. 
Times present, past, to come, heaven, 
hell, and all, 
Like King Alfonso. When I thus see 

double. 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and 
no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints, 
Or angels, now could stop tlie torrent ; 
so 
He read the first three lines of the 
contents ; 
But at the fourth, the wiiole spiritual 
show 
Had vanish 'd. with variety of scents. 
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they 

sprang. 
Like lightning, off from his " melodious 
twang." 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 
Tlie angels stopped their ears and 
plied their pinions ; 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down 
to liell ; 
The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their 
own dominions — 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they 
dwell. 
And I leave every man to his opinions); 
Michael took refuge ip liis trump — but, 

lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not 
blow ! 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been 

known 
For an impetuous saint, unpraised his 

keys. 
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet 

down ; 



Who fell like Phaeton, but more at 

ease. 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown; 

A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for tlie Laureate's final wreath, 

whene'er 
Reform shall happen either here or there. 

He fir.st sank to the bottom — like his 
works. 
But soon rose to the surface — like him- 
self ; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like 
corks. 
By their own rottenness, like as an elf, 

Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he 
lurks. 
It may be, still, like dull books on a 
shelf, 

In his own den. to scrawl some " Life " 
or " Vision," 

As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd pre- 
cisian." 

As for the rest, to come to the conclu- 
sion 
Of this true dream, tlie telescope is 

gone 
Which kept my optics free from all 

delusion. 
And show'd me what I in my turn 

have shown ; 
All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 
Was, that King George slipp'd into 

heaven for one ; 
And when the tumult dwindled to a 

calm, 
I left him practising the hundredth 

psalm. 
May 7— October 4, 1821. October 15, 1832. 

IMPROMPTUS 1 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of tlie times. 
Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
For tliee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
]My IMurray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen. — 
But where is thy new Magazine. 

My Murray? 

1 From letters addressed to Mr. Murray, or to 
Thomas Moore. 



BYRON 



271 



Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
The works tliou deemest most divine- 
The '• Art of Cooker}^" and mine, 

My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without " the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would. 

My Murray. 
April 11, ISIS. 1830. 



When a man hath no freedom to fight 
for at home. 
Let him combat for that of his neigh- 
bors ; , 
Let liim think of the glories of Greece 
and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on the head for his 
labors. 

To do good to mankind is tlie chivalrous 
plan. 
And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you 
can. 
And, if not sliot or hang'd, you'll get 
kniglited. 

November 5, 1S20. 1824. 



So vve'U go no more a roving 

So late into the niglit. 
Though the lieart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath. 
And the soul wears out the breast. 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 
iVnd the day returns too soon. 

Yet we'll go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon. 

February 2S, 1S17. 1830. 

The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the asses' who pull ; 

Each tugs it a different way. 

And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
November 5, 1S20. 1830. 



Who kill'd John Keats ? 
" I," says the Quarterly .1 
So savage and Tartarly ; 

" 'Twas one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow ? 

"The poet-priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man). 

Or Southey, or Barrow." 

July 30, 1S21. 1830. 



For Orford and for Waldegi*ave 

You give niucli more than me you gave ; 

Which is not fairly to behave. 

My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 'tis said, 

Be worth a lion fairly sped, 

A live lord must be worth tivo dead, 

My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — - 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if yot(, will, /.shan't be shamm'd. 
And if you won't, you may be damn'd. 
My Murray. 
August S3, 1S21. 1830, 

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD 
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 

story ; 
The days of our ^'■outh are the dajs of 

our gloiy ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two- 

and-twenty 
Are wortli all your laurels, though ever 

so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the 

brow that is wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew 

be-sprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head 

that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can 

only give glory ! 

Oh, Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy 
praises, 

1 See the note on page 354. 



272 



BRITISH POETS 



'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound- 
ing phrases, 

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear 
one discover, 

She thought that I was not unworthy to 
love her. 

There cliiefly I sought thee, there only I 

found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that 

surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was 

bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was 

glory. 

November, 1821. 1830. 

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it liath ceased to move : 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf ; 

The flowers and fruits of love are 
gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 



The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 

And power of love, I cannot share, 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 't is not liere — 
Such thoughts should shake my soul, 
nor now, 
Wliere glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field. 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his sliield. 

Was not more free. 1 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
Awake, my spirit! Think through 
xvhovn. 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manliood ! — luito tliee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If tliou regrett'st thy youth, why live 9 

The land of honorable death 
Is here :— up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 
A soldier's grave, for thee tlie best ; 

Then look around, and clioose thy ground. 
And take thy rest. 
At MissoJonqhi, January 22. 1824. 

October 29, 1824. 



SHELLEY 

List of References 

** Complete Works, edited by II. Buxton Forraan, 8 volumes. Works, 
edited by R. II. Sliepherd, 4 volumes. * Complete Poetical Works, editi'il 
by (t. E. Woodberry, 4 volumes, Ilougbton, IVIitfiin & Co. Aldine Poets, 
5 volumes, The Macmillan Co. Riverside Edition, 2 volumes, Hough- 
ton, Mifflin & Co. , * Globe Edition, edited by Edward Dowden, 1 volume, 
The Macmillan Co. * Cambridge Edition, edited by G. E. Woodberry, 
1 volume, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 

BlOORAPHY 

Med WIN (Thomas), Life of Shelley, 1847. Hogg (T. J.), Life of Shel- 
ley, 1858. MiDDLETON (C. S.), Shelley and his Writings, 1858. Shel- 
ley Memorials, edited by Lady Shelley, 1859. Garnett (Richard), 
Relics of Shelley, 18G2. Rossetti (W. M.), Life of Shelley (prefixed to 
his edition of Shelley's Works), 1870. Saiith (G. B.), Shelley, A Critical 
Biography, 1877. ** Symonds (J. A.), Shelley (English Men of Letters 
Series), 1878. Jeaffreson (J. C), The Real Shelley, 1885. Dowden 
(Edward), Life of Shelley (The standard biography, but not altogetlier 
satisfactory. Lacking both in frankness and sympathy.), 188G. Rabue 
(Felix), Shelley, sa Vie et ses Oeuvres, 1887. Sharp (William), Shelley 
(Great Writers Series), 1887. Salt (II. S.), Shelley, A Biographical 
Study. (See also Mrs. Shelley's Notes to the Poems, Moore's Life of 
Byron, C. Kegan Paul's William Godwin, his Friends and Contempor- 
aries ; etc.) 

Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

* Trelawney (E. J.), Recollections of Shelley and Byron. Hunt 
(Leigh), Byron and some of his Contemporaries. Hunt (Leigh), Autobi- 
ography. Medwin (Thomas), Shelley Papers. Mitpord (Mary Russell), 
Recollections of a Literary Life. De Quincey (T.), Essays on Poets. 

* Peacock (Thomas Love), Memoirs of Percy Bysslie Shelley. 

Later Criticism 

* Browning (Robert), Complete Works: An Essay on Shelley. 

* Bagehot (Walter), Literary Studies. * Bourget (Paul), Etudes et 
Portraits. Brandes (S. M. C), Shelley und Lord Byron : Zwei litterarische 
Charakterbilder. Calvert (G. H.), Coleridge, Shelley, (4oethe. Dow- 
DEx (Edward), French Revolution and English Literature; Essay VI. 

i8 273 



274 BRITISH POETS 

DowDEN (Edward), Studies in Literature : Transcendental Movement and 
Literature ; French Revolution and Literature. Garnett (Richard), Essays 
of an Ex-Librarian : Shelley and Lord Beaconsfield. Gosse (E.), Questions 
at Issue. HuTTON (R. II.), Literary Essays. Lang (Andrew), Letters to 
Dead Authors. Ma<:donald ((Tcorge), Imagination and Other Essays. 
Masson (David), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Nen- 
cioNi (E.), Letteratura inglese. Rossetti (W. M.), In Eneyclopiedia 
Britannica. Rossetti (W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Scuddek (V. D.), 
The Greek Spirit in Shelley and Browning. Shairp (J. C), Aspects of 
Poetry. Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. Ill : Shelley and 
Godwin. Thomson (James), Biographical and Critical Studies. Tod- 
hunter (John), A Study of Shelley. * Trent (W. P.), Authority of 
Criticism : A propos of Shelley. Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters 
Life. * WooDiJERRY (G. E.), Makers of Literature. 

Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism. Adams (Francis), Essays in Mo- 
dernity. Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Chorley (II. F.), Authors of 
England. Caine (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criticism. Chiarini (Giuseppe), 
Ombi'e e Figure. Courthope (William J.), The Liberal Movement in 
English Literature. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey 
(J. A.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poetry. De Vere (Au- 
brey), Essays, chiefly on Poetry. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. Han- 
cock (A. E.), The French Revolution and the English Poets. Johnson 
(C. F.), Three Americans and Three Englishmen. Mom (1). M.), Sketches 
of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half Century, 1851. Noel (R.), 
Essays on Poetry and Poets. Patmore (C), Principle in Art. Schuylkh 
(E.), Italian Influences. Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. 
Tuckerman (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. 

Tributes in Verse 

* Browning, Memorabilia; Pauline, etc. Bourget (Paul), Sur un 
Volume de Shelley. Aganoor, Leggenda Eterna. Foraian (Alfred), 
Sonnets : Two Sonnets to Shelley. Japp (A. H.), in Stedman's Victorian 
Anthology. Lang (A.), Lines on the Inaugural Meeting of the Shelle}' 
Society. Thomson (James), Shelley, a Poem. * Rossetti, (D. G.), Five 
English Poets : Percy Bysshe Shelley. * Rossetti (W. M.), Shelley's 
Heart. De Vere (Aubrey), Lines composed at Lerici. Hunt (Leigli), 
Sonnet to Shelley. Langford (J. A.), Shelley. * Taub (J. B.) Shelley, 
a Sonnet. * Woodberry (G. E.), Poems: Shelley, a Sonnet ; Shelley's 
House. * Watson (William), * Shelley's Centenary; To Edward Dow- 
den on his Life of Shelley ; Quatrain to Harriet Shelley. 

Bibliography 

* Forman (H. P>.), The Shelley Library ; an Essay in Bibliography. 
Salem Public Library, Sjiecial Reading List. Anderson (J. P.), Ap- 
pendix to Sharp's Life of Shelley. 



SHELLEY 



STANZAS— April, 1814 1 

Away ! the moor is dark beneath the 
moon, 
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale 
beam of even : 
Away ! the gathering winds will call 
the darkness soon. 
And profoundest midnight shroud the 
serene lights of heaven. 



past 



Every 
tear thy 



Pause not ! The time is 
voice cries, Away ! 
Tempt not with one hist 
friend's ungentle mood : 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares 
not entreat thy stay : 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back 
to solitude. 

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent 
home ; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated 
hearth ; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts 
they go and come. 
And complicate strange webs of mel- 
ancholy mirth. 

The leaves of wasted autumn woods 
shall float around thine head : 
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam 
beneath thy feet : 
But thy .soul or this world must fade in 
the frost that binds the dead. 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's 
smile, ere thou and peace may 
meet. 

The cloud shadows of midnight possess 

their own repose, 
For the weary winds are silent, or the 

moon is in the deep : 
Some respite to its turbulence unresting 

ocean knows ; 



'See Dovvden's Life of Shelley, Vol. I., pp. 
410-411. 



Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, 
hath its appointed .sleep. 

Thou in the grave shalt rest— yet till 
the phantoms flee 
Whicli that house and heath and gar- 
den made dear to tliee erewhile, 
Tliy remembrance, and repentance, and 
deep iTiusings are not free 
From the music of two voices and 
the light of one sweet smile. 

1814. 1816. 

TO COLERIDGE i 

AAKPY2I AlOISn nOTMON •AnOTMON 

Oh ! THERE are spirits of the air. 
And genii of the evening breeze, 

And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 
As star-beams among twilight trees : — 

Such lovely ministers to meet 

Oft hast thou turned from men thy 
lonely feet. 

With mountain winds, and babbling 
springs. 
And moonlight seas, that are the voice 
Of tliese inexplicable things 

Tliou didst hold commune, and rejoice 
When tliey did answer thee ; but they 
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love 
away. 

And thou hast .?ouglit in stai-ry eyes 
Beams that were never meant for 
thine, 

1 The poem beginning " Oh, there are spirits in 
the air " was addressed in idea to Coleridge, 
whom he never knew ; and at whose character 
he could only guess imperfectly, through his 
writings, and accounts he heard of him from 
.some who knew him well. He regarded his 
change of opinions as rather an act of will than 
conviction, and believed that in his inner heart 
he would be haunted by what Shelley considered 
the better and holier aspirations of his youth. 
(From Mrs. Shelley's Note on the Early Poems.) 
See also Dowden's Life of Shelley, Vol. I., p. 472 
and note. 



275 



276 



BRITISH POETS 



Another's wealtli : — tame sacrifice 

To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine ? 
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, 
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy 
demands? 

Ah ! wherefore didst thou build thine 
hope 
On the false earth's inconstancy ? 
Did thine own mind afford no scope 

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee ? 
That natural scenes or human smiles 
Could steal the power to wind thee in 
their wiles. 

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 
Whose falsehood left thee broken- 
hearted ; 
The glory of the moon is dead ; 

Niglit's ghosts and dreams have now 
departed ; 
Thine own soul still is true to thee, 
But changed to a foul fiend through 
misery. 

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs. 
Dream not to chase ; — the mad endea- 
vor 
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate. 
Dark as it is, all change would aggra- 
vate. 1815. 1810. 

ALASTOR, 

OR 

THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 

PREFACE 

The poem entitled Alastor may be considered 
as allegorical of one of the most interesting 
situations of the human mind. It represents a 
youth of uncorrupted fetilings and adventurous 
genius led forth by an imagination inflamed and 
purified through familiarity with all that is ex- 
cellent and majestic, to the contemplation of tlie 
universe. He drinlvs deep of the fountains of 
knowledge, and is still insatiate. Tlie magnifi- 
cence and beauty of the external world sinks 
profoundly into the frame of his conceptions, and 
affords to their modifications a variety not to be 
exhausted. So long as it is possible for his de- 
sires to point towards objects thus infinite and 
unmeasured, he is joyous, and tranquil, and self- 
possessed. But the period arrives when these 
objects cease to suffice. His mind is at length 
suddenly awakened and thirsts for intercourse 
with an intelligence similar to itself. He im- 
ages to himself the Being whom he loves. Con- 
versant with speculations of the sublimest and 
niOf;t perfect natures, the vision in which he 
embodies his own imaginations unites all of 
wonderful, or wise, or beautiful, which the poet. 



the philosopher, or the lover could depicture. 
The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the 
functions of sense, have their respective requisi- 
tions on the sympathy of corresponding powers 
in other human beings. The Poet is represented 
as uniting these requisitions, and attaching them 
to a single image. He seeks in vain for a proto- 
type of his conception. Blasted by his disap- 
pointment, he descends to an untimely grave. 

The picture is not barren of instruction to ac- 
tual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was 
avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion 
pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power 
which strikes tlie luminaries of the world with 
sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening 
them to too exquisite a perception of its influ- 
ences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those 
meaner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion. 
Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as 
tlieir delinquency is more contemptible and per- 
nicious. They who, deluded by no generous 
error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful 
knowdedge, duped "by no illustrious superstition, 
loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no 
hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies 
with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy 
nor mourning with human grief ; these, and 
such as tliey, have their apportioned curse. 
They languish, because none feel with them their 
common nature. They are morally dead. They 
are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathei's, nor 
citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their 
country. Among those who attempt to exist 
without human sympathy, the pure and tender- 
hearted perish through the intensity and passion 
of their searcli after its communities, when the 
vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself 
felt. All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are those 
unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, to- 
gether with their own, the lasting misery and 
loneliness of the world. Those who love not 
their fellow-Vieings live unfruitful lives, and pre- 
pare for their old age a miserable grave. 

" The good die first. 
And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
Burn to the socket ! " 

December Ik, 1815. 



Nondum ama>>am, et amare amabam, quaere- 
bam quid amarem, amans amare. — Confess. St.. 
August. 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherliood ! 
If our great Motlier has imbtied my soul 
Willi aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon 

with mine ; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and 

even. 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight tingling silent- 

ness ; 
If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere 

wood, 
And winter robing with pure snow and 

crovvns 
Of starrj-- ice the gray grass and bare 

bouglis ; 



SHELLEY 



277 



If .spring's voluptuous pantings when she 
breathes 

Her tirst sweet kisses, have been dear to 
me ; 

If no )night bird, insect, or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still 
loved 

And cherished these my kindred ; then 
foi'give 

This boast, beloved brethren, and with- 
draw 

No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Mother of this unfathomable world ! 

Favor iny solemn song, for I have loved 

Thee ever, and thee only ; I have 
watclied 

Thy sliadow, and the darkness of th}' 
stei5s, 

And my heart ever gazes on the depth 

Of thy deep mysteries. I have made 
my bed 

In charnels and on coffins, where black 
death 

Keeps record of the tropliies won from 
thee, 

Hoping to still these obstinate ques- 
tionings 

Of tliee and thine, by forcing some lone 
ghost. 

Thy messenger, to render up the tale 

Of what we are. In lone and silent 
hours, 

Wlien night makes a weird sound of its 
own stillness. 

Like an inspired and desperate alchy- 
mist 

Staking liis very life onsmne dark hope. 

Have I mixed awful talk and asking 
looks 

With my most innocent love, until 
strange tears 

Uniting with those bi'eathless kisses, 
matle 

Such magic as compels the charmed 
night 

To render up thy charge : . . . and, 
though ne'er yet 

Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanc- 
tuary, 

Enough from incommunicable dream. 

And twiliglit phantasms, and deep noon- 
day thought. 

Has shone within me, that serenely now 

And moveless, jis a long-forgotten lyre 

Suspended in tiie solitary dome 

Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 

I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that 
my strain 



IMay modulate with invu'murs of the air, 
And motions of the iforests and the sea. 
And voice of living beings, and woven 

hymns 
Of niglit and day, and the deep heart of 

man. 

There was a Poet whose untimely 
tomb 

No human hands with pious reverence 
reared. 

But the charmed eddies of autumnal 
winds 

Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyra- 
mid 

Of mouldering leaves in the waste 
wilderness : — 

A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden 
decked 

With weeping flowers, or votive cypress 
wreath, 

The lone couch of his everlasting 
sleep : — 

Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no 
lorn bard 

Breathed o'er his dark fate one melo- 
dious sigh : 

He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. 

Strangers have wept toliear his passion- 
ate notes, 

And virgins, as unknown he passed, have 
pined 

And wasted for fond love of his wild 
eyes. 

The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to 
burn, 

And Silence, too enamored of that voice, 

Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 

B}' solemn vision, and bright silver 

dream. 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from tlie vast earth and 

ambient air 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses, 
Tlie fountains of divine ]ihiloso]ihy 
Fled not his tliirsting Ups, and all of 

great. 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had 

pass'd, he left 
His cold fireside and alienated home 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered 

lands. 
IMany a wide waste and tangled wilder- 
, ness 

Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has 

bought 



278 



BRITISH POETS 



With his sweet voice and eyes, from 

savage men, 
His rest and food. Nature's most secret 

steps 
He like her shadow has pursued, wliere'er 
Tlie red volcano overcanopies 
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
With burning smoke, or where bituineu 

lakes 
On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge, or where the secret 

caves 
Rugged and dark, winding among the 

springs 
Of fii"e and poison, inaccessible 
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 
Of diamond and of gold expand above 
Numberless and immeasurable halls. 
Frequent with crystal column, and clear 

shrines 
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrys- 
olite. 
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 
Than gems or gold, the varying roof of 

heaven 
And the green earth lost in his heart its 

claims 
To love and wonder ; he would linger 

long 
In lonesome vales, making the wild his 

home, 
Until the doves and squirrels would 

partake 
From his innocuous hand his bloodless 

food, 
Lured by the gentle meaning of liis 

looks, 
And the wild antelope, that starts 

whene'er 
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form 
More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the 

waste 
AVhere stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of 

strange 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk. 
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx. 
Dark Ethiopia in her desert hills 
Conceals. Among the ruined temples 

there. 
Stupendous columns, and wild images . 
Of more than man, where marble 

demons watch 



The Zodiac's brazen mysterj^ and dead 

men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute 

walls around. 
He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth, tluough the long 

burning day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, 

wlien the moon 
Filled the mysterious halls with floating 

shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on liis vacant 

mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he 

saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of 

time. 
Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his 

food, 
Her daily portion, from her father's tent. 
And spread her matting for his couch, 

and stole 
From duties and repose to tend his 

steps :— 
Enamored, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love : — and watched his 

nightly sleep. 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
Parted in slumber, whence the regular 

breath 
Of innocent dreams arose : then, when 

red morn 
Made paler the jiale moon, to her cold 

home 
Wildered, and wan, and panting, she 

returned. 



The Poet wandering on, through 

Arable 
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian 

waste, 
And o'er the aerial mountains which 

pour down 
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, 
In joj' and exultation held liis way ; 
Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants Ij 

entwine f1 

Beneath the hollow rocks a natural 

bower. 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched 
His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that never 

yet 
Had flushed his cheek. " He dreamed a 

veiled maid 
Sate near him, talking in low solemn 

tones. 



SHELLEY 



279 



Her voice was like tlie voice of his own 

soul 
Heard in the cahn of thouglit ; its music 

long, 
Liiie woven sounds of streams and 

breezes, held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-colored woof and shifting 

hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were 

her tlieme. 
And lofty hopes of divine libei'ty. 
Thoughts the most dear to him, and 

poesy, 
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
Of lier pure mind kindled through all her 

frame 
A permeating fire : wild numbers then 
Slie I'aised, with voice stifled in tremu- 
lous soljs 
Subdued by its own patlios : lier fair 

hands 
Were bare alone, sweeping from some 

strange liarp 
Strange symphony, and in their branch- 
ing veins 
The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 
The beating of her heart was heard to fill 
Tlie pauses of her mvisic, and her breath 
Tumultuously accorded with those fits 
Of intermitted song. Sudden slie rose. 
As if her heart impatiently endured 
Its bursting burthen : at the sound he 
I turned, 

. And saw by the warm light of their own 

life 
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous 

veil 
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now 

bare. 
Her dark locks floating in the breath of 

night. 
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 
Outstretched, and pale, and quivering 

eagerly. 
His strong heart sunk and sickened with 

excess 
Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs 

and quelled 
His gasping breath, and spread his arms 

to meet 
Her panting bosom : . . . she drew back 

a while. 
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy. 
With frantic gesture and short breath- 
less cry 
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 
Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and 

night 



Involved and swallowed up the vision ; 

sleep. 
Like a dark flood suspended in its course. 
Rolled back its impulse on his vacant 

brain. 

Roused by the shock he started from 
])is trance — 
The cold wliite light of morning, the 

bkie moon 
Low in the west, tlie clear and garish 

hills, 
Thedistinct valley and the vacant woods. 
Spread round him where he stood. 

Whither have fled 
Tlie luies of heaven that canopied his 

bower 
Of 3'esternight ? The sounds that 

soothed his .sleep, 
The mystery and tlie majesty of Earth, 
The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 
Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 
As ocean's moon looks on the moon in 

heaven . 
The spirit of sweet human love has sent 
A vision to the sleep of him who spurned 
Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 
Beyond the realms of di-eam that fleet- 
ing shade ; 
He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 
Were limbs, and breath, and being in- 
tertwined 
Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, for ever 

lost, 
In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 
That beautiful shape ! Does the dark 

gate of death 
Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rain- 
bow clouds. 
And pendent mountains seen in the calm 

lake. 
Lead only to a black and watery depth. 
While death's blue vault, with loathliest 

vapors liung. 
Where every shade which the foul gi'ave 

exhales 
Hides its dead eye from the detested day. 
Conduct, O Sleep, to thy delightful 

realms ? 
This doubt with sudden tide flowed on 

his heart ; 
The insatiate hope which it awakened 

stung 
His brain even like despair. 

Wliile daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the pas- 
sion came, 



BRITISH POETS 



Like the fierce fiend of a distempered 
dream 

And shook liim from his rest, and led 
him forth 

Into tlie darkness. — As an eagle, grasped 

In folds of the green serpent, feels her 
breast 

Burn witli the poison, and precipitates 

Througli night and daj', tempest, and 
calm, and cloud, 

Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind 
flight 

O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus 
driven 

By the bright shadow of that lovely 
dream, 

Beneath the cold glare of the desolate 
night, 

Tlirough tangled swamps and deep pre- 
cipitous dells, 

Startling with careless step the moon- 
light snake, 

He fled. Red morning dawned upon liis 
flight. 

Sliedding the mockery of its vital hues 

Upon his clieek of death. He wandered 
on 

Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's 
steep. 

Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud ; 

Through Balk, and where tlie desolated 
tombs 

Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind 

Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered 
on. 

Day after day, a weary waste of hours. 

Bearing within his life the brooding care 

That ever fed on its decaying flame. 

And now^ his limbs were lean ; his scat- 
tered liair 

Sered by the autumn of strange suffer- 
ing 

Sung dirges in the wind : his listless 
hand 

Hung like dead bone within its withered 
skin ; 

Life, and the lustre that consumed it, 
shone 

As in a furnace burning secretly 

From his dark eyes alone. The cot- 
tagers. 

Who ministered with huiuan charity 
His human wants, beheld with wonder- 
ing awe 
Their fleeting visitant. The moun- 
taineer. 
Encountering on .some dizzj'^ precipice 
That spectral form, deemed that the 
Spirit of wind 



With lightning eyes, and eager breath, 

and feet 
Disturbing not the drifted snow, had 

paused 
In its career : the infant would conceal 
His troubled visage in his mother's robe 
In terror at the glare of those wild eyes. 
To remember their strange light in 

many a dream 
Of after-times ; but youthful maidens, 

taught 
By nature, would interpret half the woe 
That wasted him. would call him with 

false names 
Brother, and friend, would press his 

pallid hand 
At parting, and watch, dim through 

tears, tl\e path 
Of his deiJarture from their father's 

door. 

At length upon the lone Chorasmian 

shore 
He paused, a wide and melancholy waste 
Of pvitrid marshes. A strong impulse 

urged 
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was 

there. 
Beside a sluggish stream among the 

reeds. 
It rose as he approached, and witli strong 

wings 
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright 

course 
High over the immeasurable main. 
His eyes pursued its flight. — " Thou 

liast a home. 
Beautiful bird ; thou voyagest to thine 

home. 
Where thy sweet mate will twine her 

downy neck 
With thine, and welcome thy return 

with eyes 
Bright in the lustre of their own fond 

joy. 
And what am I that I should linger 

here. 
With voice far sweeter than thy dying 

notes. 
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more 

attuned 
To beauty, wasting these surpassing 

powers 
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and 

heaven 
That echoes not my thoughts?" A 

gloomy smile 
Of desperate hope wrinkled his quiver- 
ing lips. 



SHELLEY 



For sleep, he knew, kept most relent- 
lessly 

Its precious charge, and silent death 
exposed. 

Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy 
lure, 

With doubtful smile mocking its own 
strange charms. 

Startled b}^ his own thovights he 

looked around. 
There was no fair fiend near liim, not a 

sight 
Or sound of awe but in his own deep 

mind. 
A little sliallop floating near the shore 
Cauglit tlie impatient wandering of his 

gaze. 
It had been long abandoned, for its sides 
(laped wide with many a rift, and its 

frail joints 
Swayed witli the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged liini toembiirk 
And meet lone Death on the drear 

ocean's waste ; 
For well he knew that mighty Shadow 

loves 
The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunn}% sea and 
sky 

Drank its inspiring radiance, and the 
wind 

Swept strongly fi'om the sliore, blacken- 
ing the waves. 

Following his eager soul, the wanderer 

Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak 
aloft 

On the bare mast, and took his lonely 
. seat. 

And felt the boat speed o'er tlie tran- 
quil sea 

Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 
Obedient to tlie sweep of odorous winds 
Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 
Along the dark and ruffled waters fled 
The straining boat. — A whirlwind swept 

it on, 
Witli fierce gusts and precipitating force, 
Through the white ridges of the chafed 

sea. 
The waves arose. Higher and higher 

still 
Their fierce necks writlied beneath tlie 

tempest's scourge 
Like serpents struggling in a vulture's 

grasp. 



Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 
Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on 

blast 
Descending, and black flood on whirl- 
pool driven 
With dark obliterating course, he sate : 
As if their genii were the ministers 
Appointetl to conduct him to the light 
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet .sate 
Holding the steady helm. Evening 

came on, 
Tlie beams of sunset hung their rain- 
bow hvies 
High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted 

spray 
That canopied his path o'er the Avaste 

deep ; 
Twilight, a.scending slowly from the 

east. 
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided 

locks 
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of 

day ; 
Night followed, clad with stars. On 

every side 
Move horribly the multitudinous streams 
Of ocean's movintainous waste to mutual 

war 
Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as 

to mock 
Tlie calm and spangled sky. The little 

boat 
Still fled before the storm ; still fled, 

like foam 
Down the steep cataract of a wintry 

river ; 
Now pausing on the edge of the riven 

wave ; 
Now leaving far behind the bursting 

mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely 

fled— 
xVs if that frail and wasted human form, 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
Tlie moon arose : and lo ! the ethei-eal 

cliffs 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
Among the stars like sunlight, and 

around 
Whose caverned base the whirlpools 

and the waves 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly 
Rage and resound for ever. — Who shall 

save ? — 
The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent 

drove, — 
The crngs closed round with black and 

jagged arms, 



BRITISH POETS 






Tlie shattered mountains ovei'hung tlie 

sea, 
And faster still, beyond all human speed. 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth 

wave. 
The little boat was driven. A cavern 

there 
Yawned, and amid its slant and wind- 
ing depths 
Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled 

on 
With unrelaxing speed. — "Vision and 

Love ! " 
Tlie Poet cried aloud. " I have beheld 
The path of thy departui'e. Sleep and 

death 
Shall not divide vis long ! " 

The boat pursued 
The wii\diitgs of the cavern. Dayligiit 

shone 
At length upon that gloomj' river's flow ; 
Now, where tlie fiercest war among the 

waves 
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream 
TJie boat moved slowly. Where the 

mountain, riven, 
Exposed those black depths to the azure 

sky, 
Ere yet tlie flood's enormous volume fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the 

mass 
Filled with one whirlpool all that ample 

chasm ; 
Stair above stair the eddying water rose, 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled loots 
Of mighty trees, that stretched their 

giant arms 
In darkness over it. I' the midst was left. 
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous 

calm. 
Seized by the sway of the ascending 

stream. 
With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, 

and round,* 
Ridge after ridge the straining boat 

arose. 
Till on the A'erge of the extremest curve, 
Wliere, through an opening of the rocky 

bank, 
The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 
Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides 
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — 

Shall it sink 
Down the abyss? Shall tlie reverting 

stress 
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 



Now shall it fall 'i — A wandering stream 

of wind. 
Breathed from the west, has caugiit the 

expanded sail, 
And, lo ! vvitli gentle motion, between 

banks 
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream. 
Beneath a woven grove it sails, and liark ! 
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar, 
With the breeze murmuring in the 

musical woods. 
Wliere the embowering trees recede, 

and leave 
A little space of green expanse, the cove 
Is closed b}^ meeting banks, whose 

yellow flowers 
Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes. 
Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave 
Of the boat's motion marred their pen- 
sive task. 
Which nought but vagrant bird, or 

wanton wind. 
Or falling spear-grass, or their own 

decay 
Had eer disturbed before. The Poet 

longed 
To deck witli their bright hues his with- 
ered hair, 
But on his heart its solitude returned. 
And he forebore. Not the strong impulse 

hid 
In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and 

shadowy frame 
Had yet performed its ministry : it hung 
Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 
Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the 

floods 
Of night close over it. 

The noonday sun 
Now shone upon the forest, one. vast 

mass 
Of mingling shade, whose brown mag- 

niiiceiK-e 
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge 

caves. 
Scooped in the dark base of their aer\' 

rocks 
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for 

ever. 
The meeting boughs and implicated 

leaves 
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
Bj^ love, or dream, or god, or mightier 

Death, 
He .souglit in Nature's dearest haunt, 

some bank. 
Her cradle, and liis sepulchre. More dark 
And dark the shades accumulate. The 

oak, 



SHELLEY 



283 



Expanding its immense and knotty arms, 

Embraces the light beech. The pyra- 
mids 

Of the tall cedar overarching frame 

jMost solemn domes within, and far 
below, 

Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 

The ash and the acacia floating hang 

Tremulous and pale. Like restle.ss ser- 
pents, clothed 

In rainbow and in fire, the parasites. 

Starred with ten thousand blossoms, 
flow around 

Tlie gray trunks, and, as gamesome in- 
fants' eyes. 

With gentle meanings, and most in- 
nocent wiles. 

Fold tlieir beams round tlie hearts of 
tliose that love. 

These twine their tendrils with the 
wedded boughs 

Uniting their close union ; the woven 
leaves 

Make network of the dark blue light of 
day, 

And the night's noontide clearness, 
mutable 

As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft 
Jiiossy lawns 

Beneath these canopies extend their 
swells. 

Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and 
eyed witli blooms 

Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 

Sends from its woods of musk-rose, 
twined with jasmine, 

A soul-dissolving odor, to invite 

To some more lovely mystery. Through 
the dell. 

Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, 
keep 

Tlieir noonday watch, and sail among 
the shades. 

Like vaporous shapes half seen ; beyond, 
a well, 

Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent 
wave, 

Iniages all the woven boughs above. 

And each depending leaf, and every 
speck 

Of azure sky, darting between their 
chasms ; 

Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 

Its portraiture, but some inconstant star 

Between one foliaged lattice twinkling 
fair. 

Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the 
moon. 

Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, 



Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze of 
noon. 

Hither the Poet came. His eyes be- 
held 
Their own wan light through the re- 
flected lines 
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark 

depth 
Of that still fountain ; as the human 

lieart. 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomj^ grave. 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. 

He heard 
Tlie motion of the leaves, the grass that 

sjnung 
Startled and glanced and trembled even 

to feel 
An unaccustomed presence, and the 

sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the secret 

springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit 

seemed 
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright 

robes 
Of shadowy silver or ensluining light, 
Borrowed from aught the visible world 

affords 
Of grace, or majesty, or mysterv ; — 
But undulating woods, and silent well. 
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 
Now deepening the dark shades, for 

speech assuming. 
Held commune with him, as if he and it 
Were all that was, — only . . . when his 

regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness, . . . 

two eyes, 
Two stariy eyes, hung in the gloom of 

thought. 
And seemed with their serene and azure 

smiles 
To beckon him. 

Obedient to the light 
Tliat shone within his soul, he went, 

pursuing 
The windings of the dell. — The rivulet 
Wanton and wild, through many a green 

ravine 
Beneath tlie forest flowed. Sometimes 

it fell 
Among the moss with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the polished 

stones 
It danced ; like childhood laughing as it 

went : 



jS4 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlieu through the phiin in tranquil 

wanderings crept, 
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud 
That overhung its quietness. — "O stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
Thou imagest mj^ life. Thy darksome 

stilhiess. 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow 

gulfs. 
Thy searchless fountain, and invisible 

course 
Have each their t^pe in me : and the 

wide sk}', 
And measureless ocean may declare as 

soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering 

cloud 
Contains thy waters, as tlie universe 
Tell where these living thoughts reside, 

when stretched 
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs 

shall waste 
I' the passing wind ! " 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did 

impress 
On the green moss his tremulous step, 

that caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning 

liml)s. As one 
Roused by some joyous madness from 

the couch 
Of fever, he did move ; yet not like hi in 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when 

the flame 
Of his frail exultation shall be spent. 
He must descend. Witii rapid steps he 

went 
Beneatli the shade of trees, beside the 

flow 
Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and now 
The forest's solemn canopies were 

changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening 

sky. 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, 

and stemmed 
The struggling brook : tall spires of 

windlestrae 
Tluew their thin shadows down the 

rugged slope. 
And nought but gnarled roots of ancient 

pines 
Branchless and blasted, clenched with 

grasping roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change 

was here, 



Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow 

away. 
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair 

grows thin 
And white, and where irradiate dew\' 

eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so from 

his steps 
Bright flowers departed, and the beauti- 
ful shade 
Of the green groves, with all their odor- 
ous winds 
And musical motions. Calm, he still 

pursued 
The stream, that with a larger volume 

now 
Rolled through the labyrinthine dell, 

and there 
Fretted a path through its descending 

curves 
With its wintry S2ieed. On every side 

now rose 
Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms. 
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles 
In the light of evening, and, its precipice 
Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 
Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and 

yawning caves. 
Whose windings gave ten thousand 

various tongues 
To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass 

expands 
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain 

breaks. 
And seems, with its accumulated crags. 
To overhang the world : for wide expand 
Beneath the wan stars, and descending 

moon 
Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty 

streams, 
Dim tracts and vast, robed in the 

lustrous gloom 
Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills 
Mingling their flames with twilight, on 

the verge 
Of the remote horizon. The near scene. 
In naked and severe simplicity. 
Made contrast with the universe. A 

pine. 
Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the 

vacancy 
Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant 

blast 
Yielding one onh' response, nt eacli pa\ise 
In most familiar cadence, with the howl 
The thunder and the hiss of homeless 

streams 
Mingling its solemn song, whilst the 
broad river, 



SHELLEY 



285 



Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged 

path, 
Fell into that immeasurable void 
Scattering its waters to the passing 

winds. 

Yet the gray precipice and solemn 

pine 
And torrent were not all ; — one silent 

nook 
Was there. Even on the edge of that 

vast mountain, 
Upheld by knott}" roots and fallen rocks, 
It overlooked in its serenity 
The dark earth, and the bending vault 

of stars. 
It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to 

smile 
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 
The fissured stones with its entwining 

arms. 
And did embower with leaves for ever 

green, 
And berries dark, the smooth and even 

space 
Of its inviolated floor, and here 
The children of the autumnal whirlwind 

bore, 
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, 

whose decay. 
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, 
Rivals the pride of summer. 'Tis the 

haunt 
Of every gentle wind, whose breath can 

teach 
The wilds to love tranquillity. One 

step, 
One human step alone, has ever broken 
The stillness of its solitude : — one voice 
Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that 

voice 
Which hither came, floating among the 

winds, 
And led the loveliest among human 

forms 
To make their wild haunts the deposi- 
tory 
Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
Its motions, i-ender up its majesty, 
Scatter its music on the unfeeling 

storm, 
And to tlie damp leaves and blue cavern 

mould. 
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branch- 
ing moss, 
Commit the colors of that varying 

cheek. 
That snowy breast, those dark and 

drooping eyes. 



The dim and horned moon hung low, 
and poured 

A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 

That overflowed its mountains. Yellow 
mist 

Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and 
drank 

Wan moonlight even to fulness : not a 
star 

Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very 
winds. 

Danger's grim playmates, on that preci- 
pice 

Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O, storm 
of death ! 

Whose sightless speed divides this sullen 
night : 

And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 

Guiding its irresistible career 

In tli}^ devastating omnipotence, 

Art king of this frail world, from the 
red field 

Of slaughter, from the reeking hos- 
pital. 

The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy 
bed 

Of innocence, the scaffold and the 
throne, 

A mighty voice invokes tliee. Ruin 
calls 

His brother Death. A rare and i-egal 
prey 

He hath prepared, prowling around the 
world ; 

Glutted witli which thou mayst i-epose, 
and men 

Go to their graves like flowei's or creep- 
ing worms, 

Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine 

The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 

When on the threshold of the green 

recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew 

that death 
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled. 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past, 
That paused within his passive being 

now. 
Like winds that bear sweet music, when 

they breathe 
Tluoug.i some dim latticed chamber. 

He did place 
His pale lean hand upon the rugged 

trunk 
Of tlie old pine. Upon an ivied stone 
Reclined his languid head, his limbs did 

rest, 



286 



BRITISH POETS 



Diffused and motionless, on the smooth 

brink 
Of that obscurest chasm : — and thus he 

lay, 
Surrendering to their final impulses 
The hovering powers of life. ■ Hope and 

despair, 
The torturers, slept ; no mortal pain or 

fear 
Marred liis repose, the influxes of sense, 
And liis own being unalloyed bj'^ pain, 
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 
Tlie stream of thought, till he lay breath- 
ing there 
At peace, and faintly smiling : — his last 

sight 
Was the great moon, which o'er the 

western line 
Of tlie wide world her mighty horn sus- 
pended. 
With whose dun beams inwoven dark- 
ness seemed 
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 
It rests, and still as the divided frame 
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood. 
That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler 

still : 
And when two lessening points of light 

alone 
Gleamed through the darkness, the alter- 
nate gasp 
Of his faint respii-ation scarce did stir 
Tlie stagnate niglit : — till the minutest 

ray 
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in 

his heart. 
It pavised — it fluttered. But when 

heaven remained 
Utterly black, the murky shades in- 
volved 
An image, silent, cold, and motionless, 
As their own voiceless earth and vacant 

air. 
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west 
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous 

frame — 
No sen.se, no motion, no divinity — 
A fragile lute, on w^hose harmonious 

strings 
The breath of heaven did wander — a 

bright stream 
Once fed with many-voiced waves — a 

dream 
Of youth, which night and time have 

quenched forever. 
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered 
now. 



O, for Medea's wondrous alchemy. 
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth 

gleam 
With bright flowers, and the wintry 

boughs exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! 

O, that God, 
Profuse of poisons, would concede the 

chalice 
Which but one living man has drained, 

who now 
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that 

feels 
No proud exemption in the blighting 

curse 
He bears, over the world wanders for 

ever. 
Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the 

dream 
Of dark magician in his visioned cave. 
Raking the cinders of a crucible 
For life and power, even when his feeble 

liand 
Shakes in its last decay, were the true 

law 
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art 

fled 
Like some frail exhalation ; which the 

dawn 
Robes in its golden beams. — ah ! thou 

hast fled ! 
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, 
The child of grace and genius. Heart- 
less things 
Are done and said i' the world, and 

many worms 
And beasts and men live on, and mighty 

Earth 
From sea and mountain, cit}"^ and wilder- 
ness, 
III vesper low or joyous orison, 
Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou 

art fled — 
Thou canst no longer know or love the 

shapes 
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to 

thee 
Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid 

lips 
So sweet even in their silence, on those 

eyes 
That image sleep in death, upon that 

form 
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let 

no tear 
Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, 

when those hues 
Are gone, and tliose divinest lineaments, 



SHELLEY 



287 



Worn by the senseless wind, shall live 

alone 
In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 
Let not high verse, mourning the 

memory 
Of tliat which is no more, or painting's 

woe 
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
Their own cold powers. Art and elo- 
quence, 
And all the shows o' the world are frail 

and vain 
To weep a loss that turns their lights to 

shade. 
It is a woe too " deep for tears," when 

all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose light adorned tlie world around 

it, leaves 
Those who remain behind, not sobs or 

groans, 
Tlie passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity. 
Nature's vast fi'ame, tiie web of human 

tilings, 
Birth and the grave, that are not astliey 

were. 1 1815. March, 1816. 

1 None of Shelley's poems is more character- 
istic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns 
throughout, the worship of the majesty of na- 
ture, the broodings of a poet's heart in solitude 
— the mingling of the exulting joy which the 
various aspects of the visible universe inspires 
with the sad and struggling pangs which human 
passion imparts — give a touching interest to the 
whole. The death which he had often contem- 
plated during the last months as certain and 
near he here represented in such colors as had, 
in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. 
The versification sustains the solemn spirit 
which breathes throughout: it is peculiarly 
melodious. The poem ought rather to be con- 
sidered didactic than narrative : it was the out- 
pouring of his own emotions, embodied in the 
purest form he could conceive, painted in the 
ideal hues which his brilliant imagination in- 
spired, and softened by the recent anticipation 
of death. (Mrs. Shelley'' s note.) 

The deeper meaning of Alastor is to be found, 
not in the thought of death nor in the poet's 
recent communings with nature, but in the 
motto from St. Augustine placed upon its title- 
page, and in the Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, 
composed about a year later. Enamored of 
ideal loveliness, the poet pursues his vision 
through the universe, vainly hoping to assuage 
the thirst which has been stimulated in his 
spirit, and vainly longing for some mortal real- 
ization of his love. Alastnr, like Epipsyrhidion, 
reveals the mistake which Shelley made in 
thinking that the idea of beauty could become 
incarnate for him in any earthly form : while 
the Hymn to TnfellectHnl Beauty recognizes the 
truth that such realization of the ideal is im- 
possible. The very last letter written by Shelley 
sets the misconception in its proper light : "I 
think one is always in love with something or 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY 

I 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats tho' unseen amongst us, — 

visiting 
This various world witli as inconstant 
wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower 

to flower, — 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny 
mountain shower. 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each Juiman heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening. — 
Like clouds in starlight widely 

spread, — 
Like memorj'^ of music fled, — 
Like auglit that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 



Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
With tliine own hues all thou dost 

sliine upon 
Of human thought or form, — where 
art thou gone ? 
Why dost thou pass away and leave our 

state, 
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
desolate ? 
Ask wh}^ the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
river. 
Why aught should fail and fade that 
once is shown, 
Whv fear and dream and death and 

birth 
Cast on the daj'light of this earth 
Sucli gloom, — why man has such a 
scope 
For love and hate, despondency and 
hope ? 

HI 

No voice from some sublimer world hath 

ever 
To sage or poet these responses 

given — 
Therefore the names of Demon, 

Ghost, and Heaven, 

other ; tho error, and I confess it is not easy for 
spirits cased in flesh and blood to avoid it, con- 
sists in seeking in a mortal image the likeness of 
what is, perhaps, eternal." But this Shelley 
discovered only with " the years that bring the 
philosophic mind," and when he was upon the 
very verge of his untimely death. (Sytnonds'' 
Life of Shelley.) 



288 



BRITISH POETS 



Remain the records of their vain en- 
deavor. 
Frail spells — whose uttered charm might 
not avail to sever, 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone — like mist o'er moun- 
tains driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent. 
Thro' strings of some still instru- 
ment. 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet 
dream. 



LoA'e, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds 
depart 
And come, for some uncertain 

moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou 

art, 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state 
within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies. 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — 
Thou — that to human thouglit art 
nourishment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came, 
Dejiart not — lest the grave should be. 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 



While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and 
sped 
Thro' many a listening chamber, cave 

and ruin, 
And starlight wood, wuth fearful steps 
pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed 

dead. 
I called on poisonous names wdth which 
our yovith is fed ; 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at the sweet time when winds 
are wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in 
ecstasj" ! 



I vowed tliat I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine — have I not kept the 
vow ? 



Witli beating heart ami streaming 
eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they 
have in visioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched with me the envious 
night — 
They know that never joy illumed mj' 
brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou 

wouldst fi'ee 
Tills world fiom its dark slavery, 
That tliou — O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give wliate'er these words can- 
not express. 



The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past — there is a har- 
mony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 
Which thro' the summer is not heard or 

seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
Thus let thy power, which like the 

truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to mj' onward life supjily 
Its calm — to one who worships thee. 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did 
bind 
To fear himself, and love all human kind. 
ISIG. 1819. 

MONT BLx\NC i 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF 
CHAMOUNI 

The everlasting universe of tilings 
Flows through the mind, and rolls its 
rapid waves, 

* Mont Blanc was inspired by a view of that 
mountain and its surrounding pealis and val- 
leys, as he lingered on the Bridge of Arve on his 
way through the Valley of Chamouni. Shelley 
makes the following mention of this poem in his 
publication of the Hixlori/ of a Six Weeks'" Tour, 
and Letters from Suitzerlaiid : "The yioem en- 
titled Mont Blanc is written by the author of 
the two letters from Chamouni and Vevai. It 
was composed under the immediate impression 
of tlie deep and powerful feelings excited by the 
objects which it attempts to describe; .and, as 
an undisciplined overflowing of tlie soul, rests 
its claim to approbation on an attempt to 
imitate the untamable wildness and inaccessible 
solemnity from which those feelings sprang." 
(From Mrs. Shelley's Note on the Poems uf ISUl) . 
Compare Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in 



SHELLEY 



289 



Now dark — now glittering — now reflect- 
ing gloom — ■ 
Now lending splendor, where from secret 

springs 
Tlie source of human thought its tribute 

brings 
Of waters, — with a sound but half its 

own. 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the mountains 

lone, 
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever. 
Where woods and winds contend, and a 

vast river 
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and 

raves. 

Tlius thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep 

Ravine — 
Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale. 
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns 

sail 
Fast cloud shadows and sunbeams : 

awful scene. 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve 

comes down 
From tlie ice gulfs tliat gird his secret 

throne, 
Bursting tlirougli these dark mountains 

like the flame 
Of lightning thro' the tempest ; — thou 

dost lie, 
Tliy giant brood of pines around thee 

clinging, 
( Miildren of elder time, in wliose devotion 
Tlie chainless winds still come and ever 

came 
To drink their odors, and their mighty 

swinging 
To liear — an old and solemn harmony ; 
Tliine earthly rainbows stretched across 

the sweep 
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image ; the 

strange sleep 
Which wlien the voices of the desert fail 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; — 
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's com- 
motion, 
A loud, lone sound no other sound can 

tame ; 
Tiiou art pervaded with that ceaseless 

motion, 
Thou art the path of that unresting 

sound — 

the Vale of Chamouni (p. 96). Coleridgre had 
never been in the Vale of Chamouni, and drew 
the sug:gestion and part of the substance of his 
Hymn from a poem by Frederike Brun. 

19 



Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on tliee 
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
To muse on my own separate phantasy. 
My own, my human mind, whiclv pas- 
sively 
Now renders and receives fast influenc- 

ings. 
Holding an unremitting interchange 
With the clear universe of tilings around ; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whose 

wandering wings 
Now float above thy darkness, and now 

rest 
Where that or thou art no unbidden 

guest, 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
Seeking among the shadows that pass 

by 
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade 

of thee, 
Some phantom, some faint inaage ; till 

the breast 
From which they fled recalls them, thou 

art there ! 

Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
Visit" the soul in sleep, — that death is 

slumber. 
And that its shapes the busy thoughts 

outnumber 
Of those who wake and live. — I look on 

high ; 
Has some unknown omnipotence un- 
furled 
The veil of life and death ? or do I lie 
In dream, and does the mightier world 

of sleep 
Spread far around and inaccessibly 
Its circles ? For the very spirit fails. 
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep 

to steep 
That vanishes among the viewless gales ! 
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 
Mont Blanc appears, — still, snowy, and 

serene — 
Its subject mountains their unearthly 

forms 
Pile around it, ice and rock ; broad vales 

between 
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps. 
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that 

spread 
And wind among the accumulated 

steeps ; 
A desert peopled by the storms alone, 
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's 

bone. 
And the wolf tracks her there — how 

hideously 



290 



BRITISH POETS 



Its shapes are heaped around I rude, 

bare, and high. 
Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. — Is this 

the scene 
Where the old Earthquake-demon 

tauglit her young 
Ruin? Were these their toj'S ? or did 

a sea 
Of fire envelope once thissilent snow? 
None can reply — all seems eternal now. 
Tlie wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so 

mild. 
So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
But for such faith with nature re- 
conciled ; 
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to 

repeal 
Large codes of fraud and woe ; not 

understood 
By all, but which the wise, and great, 

and good 
Interpret, or make felt, or deejjly feel. 

The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the 

streams, 
Ocean, and all the living things that 

dwell 
Within the daedal earth ; lightning and 

rain. 
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurri- 
cane, 
Tlie torpor of the year when feeble 

dreams 
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 
Holds every future leaf and flower ; — 

the bound 
With whicli from that detested trance 

they leap ; 
The works and ways of man, their death 

and birth, 
And that of him and all that his may be ; 
All things that move and breathe with 

toil and sound 
Are born and die ; revolve, subside and 

swell. 
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity 
Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 
And this, the naked countenance of 

earth, 
On which I gaze, even tliese primeval 

mountains 
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers 

creep 
Like snakes that watch their prey, from 

their far fountains. 
Slow rolling on ; there, many a precipice. 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal 

power 



Have piled : dome, pj'rajnid, and pin- 
nacle, 

A city of death, distinct with many a 
tower 

And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 

Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 

Is tliere, that from the boundaries of 
the sky 

Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines 
are strewing 

Its destined jxith, or in the mangled soil 

Brancldess and sliattered stand ; the 
rocks, drawn down 

From yon remotest waste, have over- 
thrown 

The limits of the dead and living world. 

Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling- 
place 

Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes 
its spoil ; 

Their food and their retreat for ever 
gone. 

So much of life and joy is lost. The race 

Of man, flies far in dread ; his work and 
dwelling 

Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's 
stream. 

And their place is not known. Below, 
vast caves 

Shine in the rushing torrents' restless 
gleam , 

Which from those secret chasms in 
tumult welling 

Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, 

The breath and blood of distant lands, 
for ever 

Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves. 

Breathes its swift vapors to the circ- 
ling air. 

Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : — the 

power is there, m 

The still and solemn power of many I 

sights, I 

And many sounds, and much of life and 

death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless 

nights, 
In the lone glare of day, the snows 

descend 
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds 

tbein there. 
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking 

sun, 
Or the star-beams dart through them : 

— Winds contend 
Silently there, and heap the snow with 

breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 



SHELLEY 



291 



The vuiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of 

things 
Which governs thought, and to the in- 
finite dome 
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were tliou, and earth, and 

stars, and sea, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 

July 23, 1S16. 1817. 

TO MARY 

DEDICATION OF THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 

So now my summer task is ended, Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own heart's 
home ; 
As to his Queen some victor Knight of 
Faery, 
Earning i)right spoils for her en- 
chanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain tliat, ere my fame 
become 
A star among the stars of mortal night. 
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou Child of 
love and light. 

The toil which stole from thee so many 

an hour 

Is ended — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 

No longer where the woods to frame a 

bower 

With interlaced branches mix and 

meet. 
Or where, with sound like many voices 
sweet, 
Waterfalls leap among wild islands 
green 
Which framed for my lone boat a 
lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I 

be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart 
has ever been. 

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, 
dear Friend, wlien first 

The clouds which wrap this world 
fi'om youth did pass. 
I do remember well the hovir which 
burst 

My spirit's sleep : a fresh Maydawn it 
was, 

When I walked forth upon the glitter- 
ing grass, 



And wept, I knew not why : until there 

rose 
From the near schoolroom voices 

that, alas ! 
Were but one echo from a world of 

woes — 
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants 

and of foes. 

And tlien I clasped my hands, and 
looked around, 
But none was near to mock my 
streaming eyes, 
Which poured their warm drops on 
the sunny ground — 
So, without shame, I spake: — " I will 

be wise. 
And just, and free, and mild, if in me 
lies 
Such power, for I grow wearj' to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyran- 
nize 
Without reproach or check."' I then 

controlled 
My tears, mj^ heart grew calm, and I 
was meek and bold. 

And from that hour did I with earnest 
thouglit 
Heap knowledge from forbidden 
mines of lore. 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or 
tauglit 
I cared to learn, but from that secret 

store 
Wrought linked armor for m\^ soul, 
before 
It might walk forth to war among man- 
kind ; 
Thus power and hope were strength- 
ened more and more 
Witliin me, till there came upon my 

mind 
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which 
I i^ined. 

Alas that love should be a blight and \ 

snare / 

To those wlio seek all sympathies in / 

one ! — j 

Such once I sought in vain ; then black \ 

despair, "f 

Tlie shadow of a starless night, was 

thrown 
Over tlie world in which I moved 
alone : 
Yet never found I one not false to me. 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights ■^' 
of icy stone 



292 



BRITISH POETS 



Wliich crushed and withered mine, 

that could not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog, until x-evived 

by thee. 

Thou Friend, whose presence on my 
wintry heart 
Fell, like bright Spring upon some 
herbless plain, 
How beautiful and calm and free thou 
wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the 

mortal chain 
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend 
in twain. 
And walk as free as light the clouds 
among, 
Which many an envious slave then 
breathed in vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit 

sprung , 

To meet tliee from the woes which had 
begirt it long ! 

No more alone through the world's 
wilderness, 
Althougii I trod the paths of high 
intent, 
I journeyed now : no more companion- 
less. 
Where solitude is like despair, I 

went. — 
There is the wisdom of a stern content 
When Poverty can blight tlie just and 
good, 
When Infamy dares mock the in- 
nocent. 
And clierished friends tuin with the 

multitude 
To trample : tins' was ours, and we un- 
shaken stood I 

Now has descended a serener hour. 
And, with inconstant fortune, friends 
return ; 
Though suffei'ing leaves the knowledge 
and the power 
Which says " Let scorn be not repaid 

with scorn." 
And from thy side two gentle babes 
are born 
To fill our home with smiles, and thus 
are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming 
moin : 
And these delights, and thou, have been 

to me 
The parents of the Song I consecrate to 
thee. 



Is it that now my inexpei'ienced fingers 

But strike the prelude of a loftier 

strain ? 

Or must the lyre on which my spirit 

lingers 

Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound 

again, 
Tliougli it might shake the Anarch 
Custom's reign. 
And charm the minds of men to Truth's 
own sway. 
Holier than was Amphion's? I would 
fain 
Reply in hope — but I am worn away, 
And Deatli and Love arej'et contending 
for their prey. 

And what art thou? I know, but dare 
not speak : 
Time may interpret to his silent )-ears. 
Yet in tlie paleness of thy thoughtful 
ciieek. 
And in the light thine ample fore- 
head wears. 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in 
thy tears, 

And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy ^ 
Is whispered, to subdue my fondest 
fears : 
And, through thine eyes, even in thy 

soul I see 
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 

They say that thou wert lovely from 
thy birth. 
Of glorious 2^^ieJits, thou aspiring 
Child. 
I wonder not — for One then left this 
earth 
Whose life was like a setting planet 

mild. 
Which clothed thee in the radiance 
undefiled 
Of its departing glory ; still her fame 

Shines on thee, through the tempests r, 
dark and wild J| 

Which shake these latter days ; and 

thou canst claim 
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an im- 
mortal name. 

One voice came forth from many a 
migiity spirit 
Wliich was the echo of three-thousand 
years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood mute 
to hear it, 
As some lone man who in a desert 
hears 



SHELLEY 



293 



The music of his home : — unwonted 
fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, 
And FaitJi and Custom and low- 
thoughted cares, 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a 

space 
Left the torn liuman heart, their food 
and dwelling-place. 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among 
mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my 
cry — 
If men must rise and stamp, with fury 
blind. 
On his pure name who loves them — 

thou and I, 
Sweet friend ! can look from our 
tranquillity 
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous 
night, — 
Two tranqviil stars, while clouds are 
passing by 
Which wi-ap them from the foundering 

seaman's sight, 
That burn from year to year with unex- 
tinguished light. 

1S17. 1818. 

OZYMANDIAS 

I MET a traveller from an antique 

land 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs 

of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on 

the sand, 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 

frown, 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold 

command. 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions 

read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these 

lifeless things. 
The hand that mocked them and the 

heart that fed : 
And on tlie pedestal these words appear : 
" My name is Ozymandias, king of 

kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and 

despair ! " 
Nothing beside remains. Round the 

decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boimdless and 

bare 
Tlie lone and level sands stretch far 

away. 1S17. 1819. 



ON A FADED VIOLET 

The odor from the flower is gone 

Which like thy kisses breatlied on me ; 

The color from the flower is flown 
Which glowed of thee and only thee ! 

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast, 

And mocks the heart which yet is warm, 
With cold and silent rest. 

I weep, — my tears revive it not ! 

I sigh, — it breatlies no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 

Is such as mine should be. 

ISIS. 1824. 

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE 
EUGANEAN HILLS 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide sea of misery. 

Or the mariner, worn and wan, 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and niglit, and niglit and day, 

Drifting on liis dreary way. 

With the solid darkness black * 

Closing round his vessel's track ; 

Whilst above the sunless sky, 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 

And beliind the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet. 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'ei"-brimming deep ; 

And sinks down, down, like tliat sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will, 

But no power to seek or shun. 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet ; 

Wliat, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may. 

Can he dream before that day 

To find refuge fi'oni distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress? 

Then 'twill wreak him little woe 

Whether such there be or no : 

Senseless is the breast, and cold. 

Which relenting love would fold ; 

Bloodless are the veins and chill 



294 



BRITISH POETS 



Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 

Every little living nerve 

That from bitter words did swerve 

Round the tortured lips and brow, 

Are like sapless leaflets now 

Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally, 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 

Lies a solitary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones, 

On the margin of the stones, 

Where a few gray rushes stand, 

Boundaries of the sea and land : 

Nor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews, as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale ; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughtered town, 

When a king in glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides : 

Those unbujied bones around 

Tliere is many a mournful sound ; 

Tliere is no lament for him, 

Like a sunless vapor, dim, 

Who once clothed with life and thought 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 

Ay, many flowering islands lie 

In the waters of wide Agony : 

To such a one this morn was led. 

My bark by soft winds piloted : 

'Mid the mountains Euganean 

I stood listening to the paean. 

With which the legioned rooks did hail 

The sun's uprise ma jestical ; 

Gathering round with wings all hoar. 

Thro' the dewy mist they soar 

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 

Bursts, and then, as clouds of even. 

Flecked with fire and azure, lie 

In the unfatliomable sky. 

So their plumes of purple grain. 

Starred with drops of golden rain. 

Gleam above the sunlight woods, 

As in silent multitudes 

On the morning's fitful gale 

Thro' the broken mist they sail, 

And the vapors cloven and gleaming 

Follow down the dark steep streaming. 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still. 

Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair ; 
Underneath day's azure eyes 
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 



A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls. 
Which her hoarj' sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crj'stalline ; 
And before that chasm of light, 
As w^ithin a furnace bright. 
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of fire. 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 
From the marble shrines did rise, 
As to pierce the dome of gold 
Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt City, thou has been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey. 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier. 
A less drear ruin then than now, 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to tlie slave of slaves 
From thy throne, among the waves 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew, 
O'er thine isles depopulate. 
And all is in its ancient state. 
Save where many a palace gate 
With greeii sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own. 
Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 
The fisher on his watery way. 
Wandering at the close of day. 
Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 
Quivering through aerial gold. 
As I now behold them here, 
Wovild imagine not they were 
Sepulchres, where human forms, 
Like pollution-nourished worms 
To the corpse of greatness cling. 
Murdered, and now mouldering : 
But if Freedom should awake 
In her omnipotence, and shake 
From the Celtic Anarch's hold 



SHELLEY 



295 



All tlie keys of cUmgeons cold, 

Where a hundred cities lie 

Chained like thee, ingloriously, 

Thou and all thy sister band 

Might adorn this sunny land. 

Twining memories of old time 

With new virtues more sublime ; 

If not, perish thou and they. 

Clouds which stain truth's rising day 

By her sun consumed away. 

Earth can spare ye : while like flowers. 

In the waste of years and hours, 

From your dust new nations spring 

With more kindly blossoming. 

Perish — let there only be 

Floating o'er thy liearthless sea 

As the garment of thy sky 

Clothes the world immortally, 

One remembrance, more sublime 

Tlian the tattered pall of time, 

Which scarce hides thy visage wan ; — 

That a tempest-cleaving Swan ' 

Of the songs of Albion, 

Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams, 

Fovuid a nest in thee ; and Ocean 

Welcomed him with such emotion 

That its joy grew his, and sprung 

From his lips like music flung 

O'er a mighty thunder-fit 

Chastening terror : — what though yet 

Poesy's unfailing River, 

Which thro' Albion winds for ever 

Lashing with melodious wave 

Many a sacred Poet's grave. 

Mourn its latest nursling fled ? 

What though thou with all thy dead 

Scarce can for this fame repay 

Aught thine own? oh, rather say. 

Though thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sunliiie soul ? — 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 

As divinest Shakespere's might 

Fills Avon and the world witli light 

Like omniscient power which he 

Imaged 'mid mortality ; 

As the love from Petrarch's urn, 

Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 

A quenchless lamp by which the heart 

Sees things unearthly ; — so thou art 

Mighty spirit — so shall be 

The City that did refuge thee. 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky 
Like thought- winged Liberty, 
Till the universal light 
Seems to level plain and height ; 

^ Byron. 



From the sea a mist has spread. 
And the beams of morn lie dead 
On the towers of Venice now. 
Like its glory long ago. 
By the skirts of that gray cloud 
Many-domed Padua proud 
Stands, a peopled solitude, 
'Mid the harvest-shining plain. 
Where the peasant heaps his grain 
In the garner of his foe. 
And the in ilk- white oxen slow 
With the purple vintage strain. 
Heaped upon the creaking wain. 
That the brutal Celt may swill 
Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
And the sickle to the sword 
Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
Overgrows this region's foison, 
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
To destruction's harvest home : 
Men must reap the things tliey sow, 
Force from force must ever flow. 
Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 
That love or reason cannot change 
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 

Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals. 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
Till Death cried, " I win, I win ! " 
And Sin cursed to lose the wager, 
Bvit Death promised, to assuage her, 
That he would petition for 
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
When the destined years were o'er, 
Over all between the Po 
And the eastern Alpine snow, 
Under the mighty Austrian. 
Sin smiled so as Sin only can. 
And since that time, ay, long before, 
Both have ruled from shore to shore, 
That incestuous pair, who follow 
Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 
As Repentance follows Crime, 
And as changes follow Time. 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 

Padua, now no more is burning ; 

Like a meteor, whose wild way 

Is lost over the grave of day. 

It gleams betrayed and to betray : 

Once remotest nations came 

To adore that sacred flame. 

When it lit not many a hearth 

On this cold and gloomy earth : 

Now new fires from antique light 

Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 



296 



BRITISH POETS 



But their spark lies dead in thee, 

Trampled out by tyranny. 

As the Norwaj^ woodman quells, 

In the depth of piny dells. 

One light flame among the brakes, 

Wliile the boundless forest shakes. 

And its mighty trunks are torn 

By the fire thus lowly born : 

TFie spark beneath his feet is dead, 

He starts to see the flames it fed 

Howling through the darkened sky 

With a myriad tongues victoriously. 

And sinks down in fear : so thou, 

O Tj^ranny, beholdest now^ 

Light around thee, and thou hearest 

Tlie loud flames ascend, and fearest : 

Grovel on tlie earth ; ay, hide 

In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now : 

'Tis tlie noon of autumn's glow, 

"When a soft and purple mist 

Like a vaporous amethyst. 

Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of heaven's profound. 

Fills the overflowing sky ; 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath, the leaves unsodden 

Where the infant frost has trodden 

With his morning-winged feet. 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 

And the red and golden vines. 

Piercing with their trellised lines 

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 

The dun and bladed grass no less. 

Pointing from this hoary tower 

In the windless air ; the flower 

Glimmering at my feet ; the line 

Of the olive-sandalled Apennine, 

In tlie south dimly islanded ; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun ; 

And of living things each one ; 

And my spirit which so long 

Darkened this swift stream of song. 

Interpenetrated lie 

By tlie glory of the sky : 

Be it love, light, harmony. 

Odor or the soul of all 

Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 

Or the mind w^hicli feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universe. 

Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
Leading the infantine moon, 
And that one star, which to her 



Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs : 

And the soft dreams of the morn 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To tliat silent isle, which lies 

'Mid remembered agonies. 

The frail bark of this lone being) 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 

And its ancient pilot. Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of life and agony : 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf : even now. perhaps. 

On some rock the wild wave wraps. 

With folded wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove. 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built. 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 

In a dell 'mid lawny hills, 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills. 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round, 

And the light and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine : 

We may live so happy there, 

That the spirits of the air. 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our liealing paradise 

The polluting multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies. 

And the love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life, 

AH things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood : 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain, 

And the earth grow voung again. 

October, ISIS. 1819. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 
The waves are dancing fast and bright, 



SHELLEY 



>97 



Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might, 
The breath of the moist earth is light, 

Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 

The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple seaweeds 
strown ; 
I see tlie waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, 

thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone. 
The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measui'ed motion. 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in 
my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found. 
And walked with inward glory 
crowned — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leis- 
ure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleas- 
ure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 

I could lie down like a tired child. 
And weep away tlie life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must 
bear. 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My clieek grow cold, and hear the sea 

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last 
monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown 
old, 

Insults with this untimely moan ; 

They might lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 

Unlike this da.j, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in 
memory yet. JSIS. 1842. 



SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819 

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying 

king,— 
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, 

who flow 
Through public scorn, — mud from a 

muddy spring, — 
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor 

know. 
But leech-like to their fainting country 

cling. 
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a 

blow, — 
A people starved and stabbed in the 

unfilled field, — 
An army, wliich liberticide and prey 
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who 

wield 
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt 

and slay ; 
Religion Christless, Godless — a book 

sealed ; 
A Senate, — Time's worst statute unre- 
pealed, — 
Are graves, from which a glorious 

Phantom may 
Burst, to illunaine our tempestuous day. 
1S19. 1839. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND i 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of 
Autumn's being. 

Thou, from whose unseen presence the 
leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an en- 
chanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic 

red, 
Pestilence-stricken midtitudes : Othou, 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold 
and low, 

1 This poem was conceived anrl chiefly written 
in a wood tliat skirts the Arno, near Florence, 
and on a day when I hat tempestuous wind, 
whose temperature is at once mild and animat- 
ing?, was collecting the vapors which pour down 
the autiinnial rains. They began, as 1 foresaw, 
at sunset with a violent ten^pest of hail and rain, 
attended by that magnificent thunder and light- 
ning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion 
of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. 
The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of 
rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with that of 
the land in the change of seasons, and is conse- 
quently influenced by the winds which announce 
it. (ShcUei/s note.) 



298 



BRITISH POETS 



Each like a corpse within it? grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, 

and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed 

in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and 

hill ; 

Wild Spirit, which art moving every- 
where : 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, Oh hear ! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep 

sky's commotion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves 

are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of 

Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are 

spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the 

head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the 

dim verge 
Of tlie horizon to the zenith's height 
The locks of the approaching storm. 

Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing 

night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from wliose solid atmospliere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : 
Oh hear ! 



Thou who didst waken from his sum- 
mer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of liis crystalline 
streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser 
day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and 

flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing 

them! Thou 



For whose path the Atlantic's level 
powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while 

far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods 

whicli wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grOw gray with 

fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves : 

Oil hear ! 



If I were a dead leaf tliou mightest bear ; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
share 

The impulse of th}'' strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over 

lieaven. 
As then, when to outstrip thj^ skiey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er 

have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in mj" sore 

need. 
Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed 1 

A heavy weight of hours has chained 

and bowed 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, 
and proud. 



Make me thy Ija-e, even as tlie forest is : 
What if iuy leaves are fa.lling like its own I 
The tumult of thj' mighty harmonies . 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal 

tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, 

spirit fierce. 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new 

birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguislied 

hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among 

mankind ! 
Be through my lips to una wakened earth 



SHELLEY 



299 



The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far be- 
hind ? ISIO. 1830. 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleeji of night, 
When the winds are breathing low. 
And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee. 
And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me — who knows how ! 
To thy chamber window, Sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
And the Champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart ; — 
As I must on thine, 

! beloved as thou art ! 

Oh lift me from the grass ! 

1 die ! I faint ! I fail ! 



Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
rty heart beats loud and fast ;— 
Oh ! press it to thine own again. 
Where it will break at last. 

1S91. 1823. 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 

The Fountains mingle with the River 

And the Rivers with the Ocean, 
The winds of Heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one spirit meet and mingle. 

Why not I with thine ?— 

See the mountains kiss high Heaven 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother, 
And the sunlight clasps the earth 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
Wliat are all these kissings worth 

If thou kiss not me ? ISlO. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 



V, "■> 




A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS - ^ }'{{, / 

AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE ? J ^ 



/ J — 



t^ I 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Prometheus 
Demogorgon 



Mercury 
Hercules 



y Oceanides 



Jupiter Asia 

The Earth Panthea 

Ocean Ione 

Apollo the Phantasm of Jupiter 
The Spirit of the Earth 
The Spirit ok the Moon 
Spirits op the Hours 
Spirits. Echoes. Fauns. Furies 



ACT I 

Scene — A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the 
Indian Caucasus. 

Prometheus is discovered bound to the 
Precipice. Panthea and Ione are 
seated at his feet. Time, night. Dur- 
ing the Scene, morning sloivly breaks. 

1 See note at the end of the poem. 



Prometheus. Monarch of Gods and 

Demons, and all Spirits 
But One, who tlirong those bright and 

rolling worlds 
Which Thoti and I alone of living things 
Behold with sleepless eyes ! regard this 

Earth 
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, 

whom thou 
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and 

praise, 
And toil, and hecatombs of broken 

hearts. 
With fear and self-contempt and barren 

hope. 
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in 

hate, 
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to 

thy scorn 
O'er mine own misery and thy vain 

revenge. 



300 



BRITISH POETS 



Three thousand years of sleep-unshel- 
tered hours. 

And moments aye divided by keen pangs 

Till they seemed years, torture and soli- 
tude, 

Scorn and desimir, — these are mine 
empire ;^ , 

More glorious far than that which thou 
survey est 

From thine unenvied throne, O, Mighty 
God! 

Almiglity, had I deigned to share the 
shame 

Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here 

Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling 
mountain. 

Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured ; with- 
out herb, 

Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of 
life. 

Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

No change, no pause, no hope ! Yet .1 

endure. 
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains 

felt ? 
I ask yon Heaven, theall-belioldingSmi, 
Has it not seen r The Sea, in storm or 

calm. 
Heaven's ever-changing Sliadow, spread 

below, 
Have its deaf waves not heard mj^ agony? 
Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

The crawling glaciers pierce me with 

the spears 
Of their moon -freezing crystals, the 

bright cliains 
Eat with their burning cold into my 

bones. 
Heaven's winged hound, polluting from 

thy lips 
His beak in poison not his own. tears up 
My heart ; and shapeless sights come 

wandering b}', 
The ghastly people of the realm of 

dream , 
Mocking me : and the Earthquake-fiends 

are charged 
To wrench the rivets from my quivering 

wounds 
When the rocks split and close again be- 
hind : 
While fro7ii their loud abysses howling 

throng 
The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen 

liail. 
And yet to me welcome is day and night, 



Whether one breaks the hoar frost of 

the morn, 
Or starry, dnn, and slow, the other 

climbs 
The leaden-colored east ; for then they 

lead 
The wingless, crawling hours, one among 

whom 
— As some dark Priest liales the reluc- 
tant victim — 
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the 

blood 
From these pale feet, which tlien might 

trample thee 
If the}^ disdained not such a prostrate 

slave. 
Disdain ! Ah no ! I pity thee. What 

ruin 
Will hunt thee undefended thro' the 

wide Heaven ! 
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth 

with terror, 
Gape like a hell within !. I speak in 

giief. 
Not exultation, for I hate no more. 
As then ere misery made me wise. The 

curse 
Once breathed on thee I would recall. 

Ye Mountains, 
Whose many-voiced Echoes, tlirough the 

mist 
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that 

spell ! 
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling 

frost, 
Which vibrated to hear me, and then 

crept 
Shuddering thro' India ! Thou serenest 

Air, 
Thro' which the Sun walks burning 

without beams ! 
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised 

wings 
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon 

hushed abyss. 
As thunder, louder than your own, made 

rock 
The orbed world ! If then my words 

had power, 
Tliough I am changed so that aught evil 

wish 
Is dead within : although no memory be 
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now! I 
What was that curse ? for ye all heard 

me speak. 

First Voice (from the Mountains) 
Thrice three hundred thousand years 



SHELLEY 



301 



O'er the Earthquake's couch we 
stood : 
Oft, as men convulsed with tears, 
We trembled in our multitude. 

Second Voice (from the Springs) 

Thunderbolts had parched our water. 
We had been stained with bitter 
blood, 
And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of 
slaughter. 
Thro' a city and a solitude. 

Third Voice (from the Air) 

I had clothed, since Earth uprose. 
Its wastes in colors not their own, 

And oft had my serene repose 

Been cloven by many a rending 
groan. 

Fourth Voice (from the Whirlwinds) 

We had soared beneatli these moun- 
tains 
Unresting ages ; nor liad thunder. 

Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, 
Nor any power above or under 
Ever made us mute with wonder. 

First Voice 

But never bowed our snowj' crest 
As at the voice of thine unrest. 

Second Voice 

Never such a sound before 
To the Indian waves we bore. 
A pilot asleep on the liowling sea 
Leaped up from tlie deck in agony. 
And heard, and cried, "Ah, woe is me! " 
And died as mad as the wild waves be. 

Third Voice 

By such dread words from Earth to 

Heaven 
My still realm was never riven ; 
When its wound was closed, there stood 
Darkness o'er the day like blood. 

Fourth Voice 

And we shrank back; for dreams of ruin 
To frozen caves our flight i)ursuing 
Made us keep silence — thus — and thus — 
Though silence is a hell to us. 

T7te Earth. The tongueless Caverns 
of the craggy hills 



Cried "Misery!" then; the hollow 

Heaven replied, 
"Misery!" and the Ocean's purple 

waves, 
Climbing the land, howled to the lash- 
ing winds. 
And the pale nations heard it, " Misery! " 
Prometheus. I liear a sound of voices : 

not the voice 
Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons 

and thou 
Scorn him, without whose all-enduring 

will 
Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, 
Both tliey and thou had vanished, like 

thin mist 
Unrolled on the morning wind. Know 

ye not me, 
The Titan ? He who made his agony 
The barrier to your else all-conquering 

foe? 
Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow- 
fed streams. 
Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep 

below, 
Thro' whose o'ershadowing woods I 

wandered once 
With Asia, drinking life from her loved 

eyes ; 
Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, 

now 
To commune with me? me alone, who 

checked, 
As one who cliecks a fiend-drawn 

charioteer. 
The falseliood and the force of him who 

reigns 
Supreme, and with the groans of pining 

slaves 
Fills your dim glens and liquid wilder- 
nesses : 
Why answer ye not, still ? Brethren ! 
The Earth. They dare not. 

Promethevs. Wlio dares? for I would 

hear tluit curse again. 
Ha, what an awful whisper rises up ! 
'Tis scarce like sound ; it tingles thro' 

the frame 
As lightning tingles, hovering ere it 

strike. 
Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic 

voice 
I only know that thou art moving near 
And love. How cursed I him ? 

TJie Earth. How canst thou hear 

Who knowest not the language of the 

dead ? 
Prometheus. Thou art a living spirit : 

speak as they. 



302 



BRITISH POETS 



The Earth. I dare not speak like life, 

lest Heaven's fell King 
Should hear, and link nie to some wheel 

of pain 
More torturing than tlie one whereon I 

roll. 
Subtle thou art and good, and tho' the 

Gods 
Hear not this voice, yet tliou art moi'e 

tlian God 
Being wise and kind : earnestly hearken 

now. 
Prometheus. Obscurely thro' my 

brain, like shadows dim, 
Sweej) awful thoughts, rapid and thick. 

I feel 
Faint, like one mingled in entwining 

love ; 
Yet 'tis not pleasure. 

TJie Earth. No, tliou canst not hear ; 
Thou art imnaortal, and this tongue is 

known 
Only to tliose who die. 

Prometheus. And what art thou, 
O, melancholy Voice ? 

The Earth. I am tlie Earth, 
Tliy mother ; she within whose stony 

veins, 
To the last fibre of the loftiest ti'ee 
Whose thin leaves trembled in the 

frozen air, 
Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, 
When thou didst from her bosom, like a 

cloud, 
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 
And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted 
Their prostrate brows from the polluting 

dust, 
And our almighty Tyrant with fierce 

dread 
Grew pale, until his thunder chained 

thee here. 
Then, see those million worlds which 

burn and roll 
Around us : their inhabitants belield 
My spliered light wane in wide Heaven ; 

the sea 
Was lifted by strange^tempest, and new 

fire 
From earthquake-rifted mountains of 

bright snow 
Shook its poitentous hair beneath 

Heaven's frown ; 
Lightning and Inundation vexed the 

plains ; 
Blue thistles bloomed in cities ; foodless 

toads 
Within voluptuous chambers panting 

crawled ; 



When Plague had fallen on man, and 

beast and worm. 
And Famine ; and black blight on herb 

and tree ; 
And in the corn, and vines, and meadow- 
grass, 
Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds 
Draining their growth, for my wan 

breast was dry 
With grief ; and the thin air, my breath, 

was stained 
With the contagion of a mother's hate 
Breathed on her child's destroyer ; aye, 

I heard 
Thy cui'se, the which, if thou reraem- 

berest not. 
Yet my innumerable seas and streams. 
Mountains, and caves, and winds, and 

yon wide air. 
And the inarticulate people of the 

dead. 
Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate 
In secret joy and hope those dreadful 

words 
But dare not speak them. 

Prometheus. Venerable mother ! 
All else who live and sutfer take from 

thee 
Some comfort ; flowers, and fruits, and 

happy sounds. 
And love, though fleeting ; these may 

not be mine. 
But mine own words, I pray, deny me 

not. 
Tlie Earth. They shall be told. Ere 

Babylon was dust. 
The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child. 
Met his own image walking in the gar- 
den. 
That apparition, sole of men, he saw. 
For know there are two worlds of life 

and death : 
One that which thou beholdest ; but the 

other 
Is imderneath the grave, where do in- 
habit 
The shadows of all forms that think 

and live 
Till death unite them and they part 

no more ; 1 1 

Dreams and the light imaginings of || 

men, 
And all that fate creates or love desires, 
Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous 

shapes. 
There thou art, and dost hang, a writh- 
ing shade, 
'Mid wliirlwind-peopled mountains ; all 

the gods 



1 



SHELLEY 



3°3 



Are there, and all tlie powers of name- 
less worlds, 

Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, 
and beasts ; 

And Deniogorgon, a tremendous gloom ; 

And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his 
throne 

Of burning gold. Son, one of these 
shall utter 

Tlie curse which all remember. Call 
at will 

Tliine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 

Hades or Typhon, or what migiitier Gods 

From ail-prolific Evil, since tliy ruin 

Have sprung, and trampled on my pros- 
trate sons. 

Ask, and thej'^ must rejily : so the revenge 

Of the Supreme may sweep thro' vacant 
shades. 

As rainy wind thro' the abandoned gate 

Of a fallen palace. 

Pi'0)iietheiiii. Mother, let not auglit 

Of that which may be evil, pass again 

My lips, or those of aught resembling me. 

Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear ! 

lone 

My wings are folded o'er mine ears : 

My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes : 
Yet tliro' their silver shade appears, 

And thro' their lulling plumes arise, 
A Sliape, a throng of sounds ; 

May it be no ill to tliee 
O thou of many wounds ! 
^esbv whom, for our sweet sister's sake. 
Ever thus we watch and wake. 

Panthea 

The sound is of whirlwind underground 
Earthquake, and fire, and mountains 
cloven ; 
The shape is awful like the sound, 

Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. 
A sceptre of pale gold 
To stay steps proud, o'er the slow 
cloud 
His veined hand doth hold. 
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong. 
Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 
Pliantasm of Jupiter. Wliy have 
the secret powers of this strange 
world 
Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, 

hither 
On direst storms? Wliat unaccustomed 

.sounds 
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voic^e 
With wliich our pallid race hold ghastly 
talk 



In darkness ? And, proud sufferer, who 
art thou ? 
Prometheus. Tremendous Image, as 
thou art mu.st be 
He whom thou shadowest forth. I am 

his foe, 
The Titan. Speak the words which I 

would hear, 
Although no thought inform thine 
empty voice. 
Tlie Earth. Listen ! And tho' your 
echoes must be mute, 
Gray mountains, and old woods, and 

haunted springs. 
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding 

sti'eams, 
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. 
Pliantasm. A spirit seizes me and 
speaks within : 
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. 
Panthea. See, how he lifts his mighty 
looks, tlie Heaven 
Darkens above. 
lone. He speaks ! O shelter me ! 

Promethens. I see the curse on 
gestures proud and cold, 
And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate, 
And such despair as mocks itself witli 

smiles. 
Written as on a scroll : yet speak : 
Oh , speak ! 

Phantasm 

Fiend, I defy thee I with a calm, fixed 

mind. 
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee 

do; 
Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human- 
kind, 
One only being shalt thou not 
subdue. 
Rain then thy plagues upon me here. 
Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear : 
And let alternate frost and fire 
Eat into me, and be tliine ire 
Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned 

forms 
Of furies, driving by upon the wounding 
storms. 

Ay, do thy worst. Thou art om- 
nipotent. 
O'er all things but thyself I gave 
thee power. 
And my own will. Be thy swift 
mischiefs sent 
To blast mankind, from yon ethere.d 
tower. 
Let thy malignant sjjirit move 



304 



BRITISH POETS 



In darkness over those I love : 
On me and mine I imprecate 
The utmost torture of thy hate ; 
And tlius devote to sleepless agony, 
This undeclining- head, while thou must 
reign on high. 

But thou, who art the God and Lord : 
O, thou, 
Who fillest with thy soul this world 
of woe. 
To whom all things of Earth and 
Heaven do bow 
In fear and worship : all-prevailing 
foe! 
I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 
Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ; 
Till thine Infinity shall be 
A robe of envenomed agony ; 
And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain. 
To cling like burning gold round thy 
dissolving brain. 

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this 
Curse 
111 deeds, then be tliou damned, 
beholding good ; 
Both infinite as is the universe. 

And thou, and thy self-torturing 
solitude. 
An awful image of calm power 
Though now tliou sittest. let tlie hour 
Come, when thou nxust appear to be 
That which tliou art internally. 
And after many a false and fruitless 

crime 
Scorn track thy lagging fall thro' bound- 
less space and time. 

Prometheus. Were these my words, 
O, Parent? 
- The Earth. They were thine. 

Prometheus. It doth repent me : 

words are quick and vain ; 
Grief for awhile is blind, and so was 

mine. 
I wish no living thing to suffer pain. 

The Earth 

Misery, Oh misery to me. 

That Jove at length should vanqnish 

thee. 
Wail, howl aloud. Land and Sea, 
The Earth's rent heart shall answer 
ye. 
Howl. Spirits of the living and the dead. 
Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and 
vanquished. 



First EcliO 
Lies fallen and vanquished ! 
Second Echo 

Fallen and vanquished ! 

lone 

Fear not : 'tis but some passing ppasm, 

Tlie Titan is unvanquished still. 
But see, where thro' the azure chasm 

Of yon forked and snowy hill 
Trampling the slant winds on high 

With golden-sandalled feet, that 
glow 
Under plumes of purple dye. 
Like rose-ensanguined ivor^^ 

A Shape comes now, 
Stretching on high from his right hand 
A serpent-ciTictured wand. 
Panthea. 'Tis Jove's world-wander- 
ing herald, Mercury. 

lone 

And who are those with hydra tresses 
And iron wings that climb the wind, 

Wliom the frowning God represses 
Like vapors steaming up behind, 

Clanging loud, an endless crowd — ■ 

Pantliea 

Tliese are Jove's tempest-walking 
hounds. 
Whom he gluts with groans and blood. 
When charioted on suli)liurous cloud 

He bursts Heaven's bounds. 

lone 

Are they now led, from the thin dead 
On new pangs to be fed? 

Panthea 

The Titan looks as ever, firm, not 

proud. 
First Fury. Ha ! I scent life ! 
Second Fury. Let me but look into 

his eyes ! 
Third Fury. The hope of torturing 
him smells like a heap 
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. 
First Fury. Barest thou delay, O 
Herald ! take cheer, Hounds 
Of Hell : what if the Son of Maia soon 
Sliould make us fot)d and sport— who 

can please long 
The Omnipotent? 

Mercury. Back to your towers of 
iron. 



SHELLEY 



305 



And gnasli, beside the streams of fire 

and wail, 
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise ! 

and Gorgon, 
Chimgera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest 01 

fiends 
Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's 

poisoned wine. 
Unnatural love, and more unnatural 

hate : 
These shall perform your task. 

First Fury. Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 

We die with our desire : drive us not 

back ! 
Mercury. Croucli tlien in silence. 

Awful Sufferer 
To thee unwilling, most unwillingly 
I come, by the great Father's will driven 

down. 
To execute a doom of new revenge. 
Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 
Tliat I can do no more: aye from thy 

sight 
Returning, for a season, Heaven seems 

Hell, 
So thy worn form pursues me night and 

day. 
Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm 

and good, 
But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in 

strife 
Against the Omnipotent ; as yon clear 

lamps 
Tliat measure and divide the weary 

years 
From which thei'e is no refuge, long 

have taught 
And long must teach. Even now thy 

Torturer ;irnis 
With the strange might of uniniagined 

pains 
The powers who scheme slow agonies in 

Hell, 
And mj commission is to lead them 

here, 
Or what more subtle, foul, or savage 

fiends 
People the ab3'ss, and leave them to 

their task. 
Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
To tliee, and to none else of living 

things, 
Wiiicli may transfer the sceptre of wide 

Heaven, 
The fear of which perplexes the Su- 
preme : 
Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his 

throne 
In intercession ; bend thy soul in prayer, 
20 



And like a suppliant in some gorgeous 

fane. 
Let the will kneel within thy haughty 

heart : 
For benefits and meek submission tame 
Tlie fiercest and the mightiest. 

Prometheus. Evil minds 

Change good to their own nature. I 

gave all 
He has ; and In return he chains me here 
Years, ages, night and day : whether 

the Sun 
Split my parched skin, or in the moony 

night 
Tiie crystal-winged snow cling round 

my hair : 
Whilst my beloved race is trampled 

dovrn 
By his thought-executing ministers. 
Such is tiie tyrant's recompense : 'tis 

just : 
He who is evil can I'eceive no good ; 
And for a world bestowed, or a friend 

lost, 
He can feel hate, fear, shame ; not gra- 
titude : 
He but requites me for his own mis- 
deed. 
Kindness to such is keen reproach, which 

breaks 
With bitter stings the light sleep of 

Revenge. 
Submission, thou dost know I cannot 

try: 
For what submission but that fatal word, 
Tlie death-seal of mankind's captivity, 
liike the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword, 
Wliich trembles o'er his crown, would 

he accept. 
Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not 

yield. 
Let others flatter Crime, where it sits 

throned 
In brief Omnipotence : secure are they : 
For Justice, when triunipiiant, will 

weep down 
Pity, not punishment, on her own 

wrongs. 
Too much avenged by those who err. 

I wait, 
Enduring thus, the retributive hour 
Which since we spake is even nearer 

now. 
But hark, the hell-hounds clamor : fear 

delay : 
Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy 

Father's frown. 
Mercury. Oh, that we might be 

spared : I to inflict 



3o6 



BRITISH POETS 



And thou to suffer ! Once more answer 

me : 
Thou knowest not the period of Jove's 
power ? 
Prometheus. I know but this, tliat it 

must come. 
Merc2iry. Alas ! 

Thou canst not count thy years to come 
of pain ? 
Prometheus. They last while Jove 
must reign : nor more, nor less 
Do I desire or fear. 

Mercury. Yet pause, and plunge 
Into Eternity, wliere recorded time. 
Even all that we imagine, age on age, 
Seems but a point, and the reluctant 

mind 
Flags wearily in its unending flight. 
Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelter- 
less ; 
Perchance it has not numbered the slow 

years 
Which thou must spend in torture, un- 
reprieved ? 
Prometheus. Perchance no thought 

can count tliem, yet they pass. 
Mercury. If tliou might'st dwell 
among the Gods the while 
Lapped in volujituous joy ? 

Prometheus. I would not quit 

This bleak ravine, these unrepentant 
pains. 
Mercury. Alas ! I wonder at, yet 

pity thee. 
Prometheus. Pit}^ the self-despising 
slaves of Heaven, 
Not me, within whose mind sits peace 

serene. 
As light in the sun, throned : how vain 

is talk ! 
Call up the fiends. 

lone. O, sister, look ! White fire 
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow- 
loaded cedar ; 
How fearfully God's thunder howls be- 
hind ! 
Mercury. I must obey his words and 
thine : alas ! 
Most heavily reinorse hangs at my heart! 
Panthea. See where the child of 
Heaven, with winged feet, 
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the 
dawn. 
lone. Dear sister, close thy plumes 
over thine eyes 
Lest thou behold and die : they come : 

they come 
Blackening the birth of day with count- 
less wings, 



And hollow underneath, like death. 
First Fury. Prometheus I 

Second Fury. Immortal Titan 1 
Third Fury. Champion of 

Heaven's slaves ! 
Prometheus. He wdiom some dread- 
ful voice invokes is here, 

Prometheus, the chained Titau. Horrible 
forms. 

What and who are ye ? Never yet there 
came 

Phantasms so foul thro' monster-teem- 
ing Hell 

From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; 

Wliilst I behold such execrable shapes, 

Methinks I grow like what I contem- 
plate, 

And laugh and stare in loathsome sym- 
pathy. 
First Fury. We are the ministers of 
pain, and fear, 

And disappointment, and mistrust, and 
hate, 

And clinging crime ; and as lean dogs 
pursue 

Thro' wood and lake some struck and 
sobbing fawn. 

We track all things that weep, and 
bleed, and live. 

When the great King betrays them to 
our will. 
Prometheus. Oh ! many fearful natures 
in one name, 

I know ye ; and these lakes and echoes 
know 

The darkness and the clangor of your 
wings. 

But why more hideous than j'our loathed 
selves 

Gather ye up in legions from the deep? 
Second Fury. We knew not that : 

Sisters, rejoice, rejoice ! 
Prometheus. Can aught exult in its 

deformity ? 
Second Fury. The beauty of delight 
makes lovei's glad. 

Gazing on one another : so are we. 

As from the rose which the pale priest- 
ess kneels 

To gather for her festal crown of flowers 

The aerial crimson falls, flushing her 
cheek, 

So from our victim's destined agony 

The shade which is our form invests us 
round, 

Else we are shapeless as our mother 
Night. 
Prometheiis. I laugh your power, and 
his who sent you here, 



SHELLEY 



307 



To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of 

pain. 
First Fury. Thou thinkest we will 

rend thee bone from bone, 
And nerve from nerve, working like fire 

witliin ? 
Prometheus. Pain is my element, as 

hate is thine ; 
Ye rend me now : I care not. 

Second Fury. Dost imagine 

We will but laugh into tliy lidless eyes ? 
Pronietheus. I weigii not wliat ye do, 

but what ye suffer, 
Being evil. Cruel was the power which 

called 
You, or aught else so wretched, into 

hght. 
Third Fury. Thou tliink 'st we will 

live thro' thee, one by one. 
Like animal life, and tho' we can obscure 

not 
Tlie soul which bvu'ns witliin, tiiat we 

will dwell 
Beside it. like a vain loud multitude 
Vexing the self-content of wisest men : 
That we will be dread thouglit beneath 

thy brain, 
And foul desire round thine astonished 

heart. 
And blood within thy labyrinthine veins 
Crawling like agony. 

Prometheus. Why, ye are thus now ; 
Yet am I king over myself, and rule 
The torturing and conflicting tlirongs 

within, 
As Jove rules you when Hell grows 

mutinous. 

Chorus of Furies 

From the ends of the earth, from the 
ends of the earth, 
Where the night has its grave and the 
morning its birth. 
Come, come, come! 
Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream 

of your mirth. 
When cities sink howling in ruin ; and 

ye 
Who with wingless footsteps trample 

the sea. 
And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's 

track. 
Sit chattering with joy on the foodless 
wreck. 
Come, come, come ! 
Leave the bed, low, cold and red, 
Strewed beneath a nation dead ; 
Leave the hatred, as in ashes 
Fire is left for future burning : 



It will burst in bloodier fashion. 

When ye stir it, soon returning : 
Leave the self-contempt implanted 
In young spirits, sense-enchanted, 

Misery's yet unkindled fuel : 
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted 

To the maniac dreamer ; cruel 
More than ye can be with hate 
Is he with fear. 
Come, come, come ! 
We are steaming up from Hell's wide 
gate, 
And we burthen tlie blast of the 

atmospliere. 
But vainly we toil till ye come here 
lone. Sister, I hear the thunder of 

new wings. 
PautJiea. These solid mountains 
quiver with the sound 
Even as tlie tremulous air : their shadows 

make 
The space within my plumes more black 
than night. 

First Fiery 

Your call was as a winged car 
Driven on whirlwinds fast and far ; 
It rapt us from red gulf of war. 

Second Fury 
From wide cities, famine-wasted ; 

Third Fury 
Groans half heard, and blood untasted ; 

Fourth Fury 
Kingly conclaves stern and cold. 
Where blood with gold is bought and 
sokl ; 

Fifth Fury 

From the furnace, white and hot. 
In which — 

A Fury 

Speak not : whisper not 
I know all that ye would tell, 
But to speak might break the spell 
Which must bend tlie Invincible, 

The stern of thought ; 
He yet defies the deepest power of 
Hell. 

Fury 
Tear the veil ! 

Another Fury 

It is torn. 

Chorus 

The pale stars of the morn 
Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. 



3o8 



BRITISH POETS 



Dost thou faint, mighty Titan ? We 

iaugli thee to .scorn. 
Dost tlioii boast the clear knowledge 

tliou waken'd.st for man? 
Then was kindled within him a thirst 

which outran 
Those perishing waters ; a thirst of fierce 

fever, 
Hope, love, doubt, desire, which con- 
sume him for ever. 
One came fortii of gentle worth 
Smiling on the sanguine earth ; 
His words outlived him, like swift 
poi.son. 
Withering up truth, peace, and ]nty. 
Look ! where round the wide horizon 

Many a million-peopled city 
Vomits smoke in the bright air. 
Mark that outcry of despair I 
'Tis his mild and gentle glio.st 

Wailing for the faitii he kindled : 
Look again, the flames almost 
To a glow-worm's lamp have 
dwindled : 
The survivors round the embers 
(rather in dread. 

Joy. joy. joy ! 

Past ages crowd on thee, but each one 
remembers. 

And the future is dark, and tlie present 
is spread : 

Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumber- 
less head. 

Semichorns I 

Di-ops of bloody agony flow 

From his white and quivering brow. 

Grant a little I'espite Jiow : 

See a disenchanted nation 

Springs like day from desolation ; 

To Truth its state is dedicate, 

And Freedom leads it fortli, liermate; 

A legioned band of linked brothers 

Whom Love calls children — 

Semichorns II 

'Tis another's : 
See how kindred murder kin : 
'Tis the vintage time for deatli and sin; 
Blood, like new wine, bubbles within ; 
Till Despair smothers 
The struggling world, which slaves and 
tyrants win. 
[.4// tJie Furies ^'amsh, except one. 
lone. Hark, sister ! what a low yet 
dreadful groan. 
Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the 
heart 



Of the good Titan, as storms tear the 

deep. 
And beasts hear the sea moan in inland 

caves. 
Darest thou observe how the fiends 

torture him ? 
Panthea. Alas ! I looked forth twice, 

but will no more. 
lotie. What didst thou see ? 
Panthea. A woful sight : a youth 

With patient looks nailed to a cru(;ifix. 
lone. What next ? 
Panthea. Tlie heaven around, the 

eartli below 
Was peopled with thick shapes of human 

death, 
All horrible, and wrought by human 

hands, 
And .some appeared the work of human 

liearts. 
For men w^ere slowlj^ killed by frowns 

and smiles ; 
And other sights too foul to speak and 

live 
Were wandering by. Let lis not tempt 

worse fear 
By looking forth : those groans are grief 

enovigli. 
Fari/. Behold an emblem : those 

who do endure 
Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and 

chains, but heap 
Thousandfold torment on themselves 

and him. 
Protnetheus. Remit the anguish of 

tliat liglited stare ; 
Close those wan lips ; let that thorn- 
wounded brow 
Stream not with blood ; it mingles with 

thy tears ! 
Fix, fix those tortured orbs in jieace and 

death. 
So tliy sick throes shake not that cruci- 
fix, 
So those pale fingers play not with t)iy 

gore. 
O, horrible ! Thy name I will not speak, 
Tt liath become a curse. I see, I see 
Tlie wise, the mild, the loft3% and the 

just. 
Whom thy slaves hate for being like to 

tliee. 
Some hunted by foul lies fi'om their 

heart's home, 
An eai"ly-chosen. late-lamented home ; 
As hooded ovinces cling to tlie driven 

hind ; 
Some linked to corpses in unwholesome 

cells : 



SHELLEY 



3^9 



Some — Hear I not the multitude laugh 

loud ?— 
Impaled in lingering fire : and mighty 

realms 
Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles, 
Whose sons are kneaded down in com- 
mon blood 
By the red light of tlieir own burning 

homes. 
Fury. Blood thou canst see, and fire ; 

and canst hear groans ; 
Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain 

behind. 
Provietheus. Worse ? 
Fur;/. In each human heart 

terror survives 
The ruin it has gorged : the loftiest fear 
All that tliey would disdain to think 

were true : 
Hypocrisy and custom make tlieir minds 
The fanes of many a worship, now out- 
worn. 
They dare not devise good for man's 

estate. 
And j'et they know not that they do not 

dare. 
The good want power, but to weep 

barren tears. 
The powerful goodness want : worse 

need for them. 
Xllfi^wise want love ; a nd those who 

^""Trrre-TPaiTt wisdoiii'T "" 

And all best things ai^ethus confused to 

ill. 
Many are strong and rich, and would 

be just, 
But live among their suffering fellow- 
men 
As if none felt : they know not what 

they do. 
Provietheus. Tliy words are like a 

cloud of winged snakes ; 
And j'et I pity tiiose tiiey torture not. 
Fury. Thou pitiest them ? I speak 

no more ! \^"auisheH. 

Prometheus. Ah woe ! 

Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, for 

ever ! 
I close my tearless ej^es, but see more 

clear 
Thy works within my woe-illumed mind. 
Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the 

grave. 
The grave liides all things beautiful and 

good : 
I am a God and cannot find it there. 
Nor would I seek it : for, though dread 

revenge. 
This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. 



The sights with which thou torturest 

gird my soul 
With new endurance, till the hour arrives 
When they shall be no types of things 

which are. 
Panthea. Alas ! what sawest thou ? 
Prometheus. There are two woes : 
To speak, and to behold ; thou spare 

me one. 
Names are there. Nature's sacred watch- 
words, the}^ 
Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry ; 
The nations thronged around, and cried 

aloud. 
As with one voice. Truth, liberty, and 

love ! 
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from 

heaven 
Among them : there was strife, deceit, 

and fear : 
Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the 

spoil. 
This was the shadow of the truth I saw. 
77ie Earth. I felt thy torture, son, 

witii such mixed joy 
As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy 

state 
I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, 
Whose homes are the dim caves of liuman 

thought. 
And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind , 
Its world-surrounding ether : they be- 
hold 
Beyond that twilight realm, as in a. glass, 
The future : may they speak comfort 

to tiiee ! 
Panthea. Look, sister, where a troop 

of spirits gather, 
Like flocks of clouds in spring's delight- 
ful weather, 
Thronging in the blue air ! 

lo^te. And see ! more come, 

Like fountain-vapors when the winds 

are dumb, 
That climb up the ravine in scattered 

lines. 
And. hark I is it the music of the pines? 
Is it the lake ? Is it the waterfall ? 
Panthea. 'Tis something sadder, 

sweeter far than all. 

Chorus of Sjiirits 

From un remembered ages we 
Gentle guides and guardians be 
Of heaven-oppressed mortality ; 
And we Ijreathe, and sicken not. 
The atmosphere of human thought : 
Be it dim, and dank, and gray. 
Like a storm-extinguished day. 



Jo 



BRITISH POETS 



Travelled o'er bj' dying gleams ; 

Be it briglit as all between 
Cloudless skies and windless streams, 

Silent, liquid, and serene ; 
As the birds within tlie wind, 

As the fish within tlie wave. 
As tile thoughts of man's own mind 

Float thro' all above the grave ; 
We make there our liquid lair, 
• Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
Thro' the boundless element : 
Thence we bear the propliecy 
Which begins and ends in tliee ! 

lone. More 5et come, one by one 
tlie air around tliem 
Looks radiant as the air around a star. 

First Spirit 

On a battle-trumpet's blast 
I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
'Mid the darkness upward cast. 
From tlie dust of creeds outworn. 
From the t3'rant's banner torn, 
Gathering 'round me, onward borne. 
There was mingled manj'^ a cry — 
Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
Till they faded thro' the sky ; 
And one sound, above, around, 
One sound beneath, around, above, 
Was moving ; 'twas the soul of love ; 
'Twas the hope, the prophecy. 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

Second Sinvit 

A rainbow's arch stood on the sea. 
Which rocked beneath, immovably ; 
And the triiuiiphant storm did flee. 
Like a conqueror, swift and proud, 
Between, with many a captive cloud, 
A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd. 
Each by lightning riven in half : 
I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh : 
Mighty fleets were sti-ewn like cliaif 
And spread beneath a hell of death 
O'er the wdiite waters. I alit 
On a great ship lightning-split, 
And speeded hither on the sigh 
Of one who gave an enemy 
His plank, then jilunged aside to die. 

niird Spirit 

I sate beside a sage's bed. 
And the lamp was burning red 
Near the book where he had feil. 
Wlien a Dream with plumes of flame. 
To his pillow hovering came, 
And I knew it was the same 



Which had kindled long ago 
Pity, eloquence, and woe ; 
And the world awhile below 
Wore the shade its lustre made. 
It has borne me here as fleet 
As Desire's lightning feet ; 
I must ride it back ere moiTow, 
Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 

Fourth Spirit 

On a poet's lips I slept 
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept : 
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses. 
But feeds on the aerial kisses 
Of shapes that haunt thought's wilder- 
nesses. 
He will watch from dawn to gloom 
The lake-reflected sun illume 
The yellow bees in the ivj'^-bloom, 
Nor heed nor see, what things they be ; 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living man, 
Nurslings of immortality ! 
One of these awakened me, 
And I sped to succor thee. 

lone 

Behold'st thou not two shapes from the 

east and west 
Come, as two doves to one beloved nest. 
Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air 
On swift still wings glide down the 

atmosphere ? 
And, hark ! their sweet, sad voices! 'tis 

despair 
Mingled with love and then dissolved 

in sound. 
Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all 

my words are drowned. 
lone. Their beauty gives me voice. 

See how they float 
On their sustaining wingsofskiey grain. 
Orange and azure deepening into gold : 
Their soft smiles light the air like a 

star's fire. 

Chorus of Spirits 
Hast thou beheld the form of love ? 

Fifth Spirit 

As over wide dominions 
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings 

the wide air's wildernesses, 
That planet-crested shape swept by on 

lightning-braided pinions. 
Scattering the liquid joy of life from his 

ambrosial tresses : 



SHELLEY 



311 



His footsteps paved the world with light ; 

but as I past ' twas fading, 
And hollow Ruin yawned behind : great 

sages bound in madness, 
And headless patriots, and pale youths 

wlio perished, unupbraiding. 
Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, 

till thou, O King of sadness, 
Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to 
recollected gladness. 

Sixth Spirit 

Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing : 
It walks not on tlie earth, it floats not on 

the air. 
But treads with killing footstep, and 

fans with silent wing 
The tender hopes which in their hearts 

the best and gentlest bear ; 
Who, sootiied to false repose by tlie 

fanning plumes above 
And the music-stirring motion of its 

soft and busy feet. 
Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the 

monster, Love, 
And wake, and find the shadow Pain, 

as he whom now we greet. 

Chorus 

Tho' Ruin now Love's shadow be, 
Following him, destroyingly, 

On Death's white and winged steed 
Which the fleetest cannot flee. 

Trampling down both flowerand weed, 
Man and beast, and foul and fair. 
Like a tempest thro' the air ; 
Thou slialt quell this horseman grim, 
Woundless though in heart or limb. 

Prometheus. Spirits ! how know ye 
this shall be ? 

Chorus 

In the atmosphere w^e breathe. 
As buds grow red when the snow-storms 
flee, 

Fi-om spring gathering up beneath, 
Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, 
And the wandering herdsmen know 
That the white-thorn soon will blow : 
Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
When they struggle to increase, 

Are to us as soft winds be 

To shepherd boys, the prophecy 

Which begins and ends in thee. 

loyie. Where are the Spirits fled ? 

Panthea. Only a sense 

Remains of them, like the omnipotence 
Of music, when the inspired voice and 
lute 



Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, 
Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine 

soul. 
Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind 

and roll. 
Prometheus. How fair these airborn 

shapes ! and yet I feel 
Most vain all hope but love ; and thou 

art far, 
Asia ! who, when my being overflowed, 
Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine 
Which else had sunk into the thirsty 

dust. 
All things are still : alas ! how heavily 
This quiet morning weighs upon my 

heart ; 
Tho' I should dream I could even sleep 

with grief 
If slumber were denied not. I would fain 
Be what it is my destiny to be. 
The savior and the strength of suffer- 
ing man, 
Or sink into the original gulf of things : 
There is no agony, and no solace left ; 
Earth can console, Heaven can torment 

no more. 
Paiithea. Hast thou forgotten one 

who watches thee 
The cold dark night, and never sleeps 

but when 
The shadow of thy spirit falls on her ? 
Prometheus. I said all hope was vain 

but love : thou lovest. 
Panthea. Deeply in truth ; but the 

eastern star looks white, 
And Asia waits in that far Indian vale 
The scene of her sad exile ; rugged once 
And desolate and frozen, like this ravine ; 
But now invested with fair flowers and 

herbs. 
And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, 

which flow 
Among the woods and waters, from the 

ether 
Of her transforming presence, which 

would fade 
If it were mingled not with thine. 

Farewell ! 

ACT II 

SCENE I.— Morning. A lovely Vale 
IN THE Indian Caucasus. Asia 
alone. 

Asia. From all the blasts of heaven 
thou hast descended : 
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which 
makes 



312 



BRITISH POETS 



Unwonted tears throng to the horny 

eyes, 
And beatings haunt the desolated heart, 
Which should have learnt repose : thou 

hast descended 
Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, O 

Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou coniest as the memory of a dream. 
Which now is sad because it hath been 

sweet ; 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 
As from the earth, clothing with golden 

clouds 
Tlie desert of our life. 
Tliis is the season, this tlie day, the hour ; 
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet 

sister mine. 
Too long desired, too long delaying, 

come ! 
How like death-worms the wingless 

moments crawl ! 
The point of one white star is quivering 

still 
Deep in the orange light of widening 

morn 
Beyond the purple mountains : thro" a 

chasm 
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
Reflects it : now it wanes : it gleams 

again 
As the waves fade, and as the burning 

threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air : 
'Tis lost ! and thro" yon peaks of cloud- 
like snow 
Tlie roseate sunlight quivers : hear I not 
The ^olian music of her sea-green 

plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 

[Panthea enters. 

I feel, I see 

Those eyes which burn thro' smiles that 

fade in tears. 
Like stars half quenched in mists of silver 

dew. 
Beloved and inost beautiful, who wearest 
Tlie shadow of that soul by which I live. 
How late thou art ! the sphered sun had 

climbed 
The sea : my heart was sick with hope, 

before 
Tlie printless air felt thy belated plumes. 
Panthea. Pardon, great Sister ! but 

my wings were faint 
With the delight of a remembered 

dream, 
As are the noontide plumes of summer 

winds 



Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont 

to sleep 
Peacefully, and awake refreshed and 

calm 
Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy 
Uiiliappy love, had made, thro' use and 

pity, 
Botli love and woe familiar to my Ireart 
As they had gi'own to thine : erewliile I 

slept . 
Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean 
AVithin dim bowers of green and purple 

moss. 
Our young Tone's soft and milky arins 
Locked then, as now, behind my dark, 

moist hair, 
Wliile my shut eyes and cheek were 

pressed within 
Tlie folded depth of her life-breathing 

bosom : 
But not as now, since I am made the 

wind 
Which fails beneath the music that I 

bear 
Of thy most wordless converse ; since 

dissolved 
Into the sense with which love talks, my 

rest 
AVas troubled and yet sweet; my waking 

hours 
Too full of care and pain. 

Asia. Lift up thine eyes, 

And let me read thy dream. 

Panthea. As I liave said 

With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
The mountain mists, condensing at our 

voice 
Under the moon, had .spread their snowy 

flakes. 
From the keen ice shielding our linked 

sleep. 
Then two dreams came. One, I remem- 
ber not. 
But in the other his pale wound-worn 

limbs 
Fell from Prometheus, ami the azure 

night 
Grew radiant with the glory of that form 
Which lives unchanged within, and his 

voice fell 
Like music which makes giddy the dim 

brain. 
Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 
•' Sister of her whose footsteps pave the 

world 
With loveliness— more fair than aught 

but lier. 
Whose shadow thou art — lift thine eyes 

on me." 



SHELLEY 



3^3 



I lifted tliem : the overpowering light 
Of that immortal shape was shadowed 

o'er 
By love ; which, from his soft and flow- 
ing limbs. 
And passion -parted lips, and keen, faint 

eyes, 
Steamed forth like vaporous fire ; an 

atmosphere 
Which wrapt me in its all-dissolving 

power, 
As the warm ether of the morning sun 
Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wan- 
dering dew. 
I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt 
His presence flow and mingle thro' my 

blood 
Till it became his life, and his grew 

mine. 
And I was thus absoi'bed, until it passed. 
And like the vapors when the sun sinks 

down. 
Gathering again in drops upon the 

pines, 
And tremulous as thej% in the deep 

night 
My being was condensed ; and as the 

rays 
Of thouglat were slowly gathered, I could 

liear 
His voice, whose accents lingered ere 

they died 
Like footsteps of weak melody : thy 

name 
Among tlie many sounds alone I heard 
Of what might l)e articulate ; tho' still 
I listened thro' the niglit when sound 

was none, 
lone wakened then, and said to nie : 
"Canst thou divine what troubles me 

to-niglit ? 
I always knew what I desired l)efore. 
Nor ever found delight to wisli in vain. 
But now I cannot tell thee what I seek : 
I know not ; something sweet, since it 

is sweet 
Even to desire ; it is thy sport, false 

sister ; 
Thou hast discovei'ed some enchantment 

old. 
Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I 

slept 
And mingled it with thine : for when 

just now 
We kissed, I felt within thy parted li])s 
The sweet air that sustained me, and 

the warmth 
Of the life-blooJ, for loss of which I 

faint. 



Quivered between our intertwining 

arms." 
I answered not, for the Eastern star 

grew pale. 
But fled to thee. 

Asia. Thou speakest, but thy words 

Are as the air : I feel them not : Oii, lift 

Thine eyes, that I may read his written 

soul ! 

Panthea. I lift them tho' they droop 

beneath the load 

Of that they would express : what canst 

tliou see 
But thine own fairest shadow imaged 
there ? 
Asia. Tlxine eyes are like the deep, 
blue, bovmdless heaven 
(Contracted to two circles underneath 
Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, mea- 
sureless, 
Orl) within orb, and line thro' line in- 
woven. 
Panthea. Why lookest thou as if a 

spirit past ? 
Asia. There is a change : be3"ond 
their inmost depth 
I see a shade, a shape : 'tis He, arrayed 
In the soft light of his own smiles, which 

spread 
Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded 

moon. 
Prometlieus, it is thine! depart not yet ! 
Say not those smiles that we shall meet 

again 
Within that bright pavilion which their 

beams 
Shall build on the waste world ? The 

dream is told. 
What shaiie is that between us? Its 

rude hair 
Roughens the wind that lifts it, its 

regard 
Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a thing of air. 
For thro' its graj^ robe gleams the golden 

dtnv 
Whose stars the noon has quenched not. 
Dream. Follow ! Follow ! 

Panthea. It is mine other dream. 
Asia. It disappears. 

Panthea. It passes now into my 
mind. Methought 
As we sate here, the flower-infolding 

buds 
Burst on yon liglitning-blasted almond- 
tree. 
When swift from the white Scythian 

wilderness 
A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth 
with frost : 



3'4 



BRITISH POETS 



I looked, and all the blossoms were 

blown down ; 
But on each leaf was stamped, as the 

blue bells 
Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 

O, FOLLOW^ FOLLOW ! 

Asia. As you speak, jour words 

Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten 

sleep 
With shapes. Methought among the 

lawns together 
We wandered, underneath the j'oung 

gray dawn. 
And multitudes of dense white fleecy 

clouds 
Were wandering in thick flocks along 

the mountains 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling 

wind ; 
And the white dew on the new bladed 

grass. 
Just piercing the dark earth, hung 

silentlj' : 
And there was more which I remember 

not : 
But on the shadows of the morning 

clouds, 
Athwart the purple mountain sloj^e, was 

written 
Follow, O, follow ! as they vanished 

by, 

And on each herb, from which Heaven s 
dew liad fallen. 

The like was stamped, as with a wither- 
ing fire, 

A wind arose among the pines ; it shook 

The clinging music from their boughs, 
and then 

Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the fare- 
well of gliosts. 

Were heard : O, follow, folloav, 
follow me ! 

And then I said ; " Panthea, look on me." 

But in the depth of those beloved eyes 

Still I saw, follow, follow ! 
Echo. Follow, follow ! 

Panthea. The crags, this clear spring 
morning, mock our voices 

As they were spirit-tongued. 
Asia. It is some being 

Around the crags. What fine clear 
sounds ! O, list ! 

Echoes (unseen) 

Echoes we : listen ! 
We cannot stay : 
As dew-stars glisten 
Then fade awnv — 
Cliild of Ocean ! 



Asia. Hark ! Spirits speak. The 
liquid responses 
Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 
Panthea. I hear. 

Echoes 

O, follow, follow, 

As our voice recedeth 
Thro' the caverns hollow, 

Where the forest spreadeth : 

[More distant) 
O, follow, follow ! 
Thro' the caverns hollow. 
As the song floats thou pursue. 
Where the wild bee never flew. 
Thro' the 7ioontide darkness deep. 
By the odor-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves. 
While our music, wnld and sweet, 
Mocks thy gently falling feet. 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. Shall we pursue the sound? It 
grows more faint 
And distant. 

Panthea. List ! the strain floats 

nearer now. 

Echoes 

In the world unknown 

Sleeps a voice luispoken ; 
By thy step alone 

Can its rest be broken ; 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. How the notes sink upon the 
ebbing wind ! 

Echoes 

O, follow, follow ! 

Thro' the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
By the woodland noontide dew ; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains 
Thro' the many-folded mountains ; 
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, 
Where the Earth rep(;>sed from spasms. 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now ; 
Child of Ocean ! 
Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link thy 

hand in mine, 
And follow, ere the voices fade away. 

SCENE II.— A Forest, intermingled 
WITH Rocks and Caverns. 

Asia and Panthea pass into it. Two 
young Fauns are sitting on a Rock 
liatcniug. 



SHELLEY 



315 



Seniiehorus I of Spirits 

The path thro' which that lovely twain 
Have past, by cedar, pine, and yew, 
And each dark tree that ever grew. 
Is curtained out from Heaven's wide 
blue ; 
Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of 
dew. 
Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze. 
Between the trunks of the hoar trees. 
Hangs each a pearl in the pale 
flowers 
Of the green laurel, blown anew ; 
And bends, and then fades silently. 
One frail and fair anemone : 
Or when some star of many a one 
That climbs and wanders thro' steep 

nigiit. 
Has found the cleft thro' which alone 
Beams fall from higli those depths upon 
Ere it is borne away, awa}'. 
By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, 
It scatters drops of golden light. 
Like lines of rain that ne'er unite : 
And the gloom divine is all around. 
And underneath is the mossy ground. 

Semichorus II 

There the voluptuous nightingales, 
Are awake thro' all the broad noon- 
day. 
Wtien one with bliss or sadness fails. 
And thro' the windless ivy-boughs, 
Sick with sweet love, droops dying 
away 
On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 
Another from the swinging blossom. 
Watching to catch the languid close 
Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
The wings of the weak melody, 
Till some new strain of feeling bear 

Tlie song, and all the woods are mvite ; 
When there is heard thro' the dim air 
The rush of wings, and rising there 

Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 
Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
So sweet, that joy is almost pain. 

Semichorus I 

There those enchanted eddies play 
Of echoes, niusic-tongued, which 

draw, 
By Demogorgon's mighty law. 
With melting rapture, or sweet awe. 

All spirits on that secret way ; 

As inland boats are driven to Ocean 



Down streams made strong with moun- 
tain-thaw : 
And first there comes a gentle sound 
To those in talk or slumber bound 
And wakes the destined. Soft emotion 
Attracts, impels them : those who saw 
Say from the breathing earth behind 
There steams a plume-uplifting wind 
Which drives them on their path, while 

they 
Believe their own swift wings and feet 
The sweet desires within obe}' : 
And so they float upon their way. 
Until, still sweet, but loud and strong. 
The storm of sound is driven along. 
Sucked up and hurrying : as they 

fleet 
Behind, its gathering billows meet 
And to the fatal mountain bear 
Like clouds amid the yielding air. 

First Faun. Canst thou imagine 

where those spirits live 
Which make such delicate music in the 

woods ? 
We haunt within the least frequented 

caves 
And closest coverts, and we know these 

wilds. 
Yet never meet them, tho' we hear them 

oft: 
Where may they hide themselves ? 

Second Faun. 'Tis hard to tell : 

I have heard those more skilled in 

spirits say. 
The bubbles, which the enchantment of 

the sun 
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers 

that pave 
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and 

pools. 
Are the pavilions where such dwell and 

float 
Under the green and golden atmosphere 
Which noontide kindles thro' the woven 

leaves ; 
And when these burst, and the thin fier}' 

air, 
The which they breathed within those 

lucent domes, 
Ascends to flow like meteors thro' the 

night, 
They ride on them, and rein their head- 
long speed. 
And bow their burning crests.' and glide 

in fire 
Under the waters of tlie earth again. 
First Faun. If such live thus, have 

others other lives. 
Under pink blossoms or within the bells 



3i6 



BRITISH POETS 



Of meadow flowers, or folded violets 
deep, 

Or on their dying odors, when they 
die, 

Or in the sunlight of the sphered dew ? 
Second Faun. Ay, many more which 
we may well divine. 

But, should we staj^ to speak, noontide 
would come. 

And thwart Silenus find his goats un- 
drawn, 

And grudge to sing those wise and lovely 
songs 

Of fate, and chance, and God, and Chaos 
old, 

And Love, and tlie chained Titan's woe- 
ful doom. 

And how he shall be loosed, and make 
the ear til 

One brotherhood : delightful strains 
which cheer 

Our solitary twilights, and which charm 

To silence the unenvying nightingales. 

SCENE III.— A Pinnacle of Rock 
AMONG Mountains. Asia aiid Pan- 

THEA. 

Panthra. Hither the sound has borne 

us — to the realm 
Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, 
Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm , 
Whence tlie oracular vapor is hurled up 
Wliich lonely men drink wandering in 

their youth, 
And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or 

joy, 
That maddening wine of life, whose 

dregs they drain 
To deep intoxication ; and uplift. 
Like Maenads who cry loud, Evoe ! Evoe ! 
The voice which is contagion to the 

world. 
Asia. Fit throne for such a power ! 

Magnificent ! 
How glorious art thou. Earth ! And if 

thou be 
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still. 
Though evil stain its work, and it should 

be 
Like its ci'eation, weak yet beautiful, 
I could fall down and worship that and 

thee. 
Even now my heart adoreth : Wonder- 
ful ! 
Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy 

brain : 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowj- mist, 
As a lake, paving in the morning sky. 



With azure waves which burst in silver 

light. 
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 
Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
The peak wiiereon we stand, midway, 

around, 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming 

forests. 
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illu- 
mined caves. 
And wind-enchanted shapes of wander- 
ing mist ; 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling 

spray. 
From some Atlantic islet scattered up. 
Spangles the wind with lamp-like water- 
drops. 
Tlie vale is girdled with their walls, a 

howl 
Of cataracts from their tliaw-cloven 

ravines. 
Satiates the listening wind, continuous, 

vast. 
Awful as silence. Hark ! the rushing 

snow ! 
The sun-awakened avalanche ! whose 

mass. 
Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered 

there 
Flake after flake, in heaven-defying 

minds 
As thought by thought is piled, till some 

great truth 
Is loosened, and the nations echo round. 
Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains 

novp'. 
Panthea. Look how the gusty sea of 

mist is breaking 
In crimson foam, even at our feet ! it 

rises 
As Ocean at the enchantment of the 

moon 
Round food less men wrecked on some 

oozy isle. 
Asia. The fragments of the cloud are 

scattered up ; 
The wind that lifts them disentwines 

my hair ; 
Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; 

my bi'ain 
Grows dizzy ; I see thin shapes within 

the mist. 
Panthea. A countenance with beckon- 
ing smiles : there burns 
An azure fire within its golden locks ! 
Another and another : hark ! they sjieak ! 



SHELLEY 



317 



So)ig of S^ririta 

To tlie deep, to tlie deep, 

Down, down ! 
Through the shade of sleep, 
Tlirough the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are 
Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down ! 

While the sound whirls around, 

Down, down ! 
As the fawn draws tlie hound. 
As the lightning the vapor. 
As the weak moth the taper ; 
Deatli, despair ; love, sorrow ; 
Time both ; to-day, to-morrow ; 
As steel obeys the spirit of tlie stone, 

Down, down ! 

Through the gray, void abysm, 

Down, down ! 
Where the air is no prism, 
And the moon and stars are not. 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given. 
Where there is one pervading, one alone, 

Down, down ! 

In tlie depth of the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Like veiled lightning asleep. 
Like the spark nursed in embers, 
The last look Love remembers. 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone, 

Down, down ! 

We have bound thee, we guide thee ; 

Down, down ! 
With the bright form beside thee ; 
Resist not the weakness, 
Sucii strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose tlirough life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coiled underneath 
his throne 

By that alone. 

SCENE IV.— The Cave of 
Demogorgon. Asia and Panthea. 

Pautliea. Wliat veiled form sits on 

that ebon throne ? 
Asia. The veil has fallen. 
Panthea. I see a mighty darkness 



Filling the seat of power, and rays of 

gloom 
Dart round, as light from the meridian 

sun, 
Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither 

limb, 
Nor form, nor outline ; yet we feel it is 
A living Spirit. 
Demogorgon. Ask what thou wouldst 

know. 
Asia. What canst thou tell ? 
Demogorgon. All things thou 

dar'st demand. 
Asia. Who made the living world? 
Demogorgon. God. 

Asia. Who made all 

That it contains ? thought, passion, 

reason, will, 
Imagination ? 

Demogorgon. God : Almighty God. 
Asia. Wiio made that sense which, 
when the winds of spring 
In rarest visitation, or the voice 
Of one beloved heard in youth alone, 
Fills the faint eyes with falling tears 

which dim 
The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers. 
And leaves this peoi)led earth a solitude 
When it returns no more? 
Demogorgon. Merciful God. 

Asia. And who made terror, madness, 
crime, remoi'se. 
Which- from the links of the great chain 

of tilings. 
To every thought within the mind of 

man 
Sway and drag heavily, and each one 

reels 
Under the load towards the pit of 

death ; 
Abandoned hope, and love that turns to 

hate ; 
And self-contempt, bitterer to drink 

than blood ; 
Pain, whose unheeded and famili;ir 

speech 
Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after 

day ; 
And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell? 
Demogorgon. He reigns. 

Asia Utter his name : a world pining 
in pain 
Asks but his name : curses shall drag 
him down. 
Demogorgon. He reigns. 
Asia. I feel, I know it : who? 

Demogorgon. He reigns. 

Asia. Who reigns? There was the 
Heaven and Earth at first, 



3i8 



BRITISH POETS 



And Light and Love ; tlien Saturn, from 

whose throne 
Time fell, an envious shadow : such the 

state 
Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his 

sway, 
As the calm joy of flowers and living 

leaves 
Before the wind or sun has withered 

them 
And semivital worms ; but he refused 
The birthright of tlieir being, knowledge, 

power, 
Tlie skill which wields the elements, 

the thought 
Which pierces this dim universe like 

light, 
Self-empire, and the majesty of love ; 
For thirst of which they fainted. Then 

Prometheus 
Gave wisdom, which is strength, to 

Jupiter, 
And with this law alone, "Let man be 

free," 
Clothed him with the dominion of wide 

Heaven, 
To know nor faith, nor love, nor law : to 

be 
Omnipotent but friendless, is to reign ; 
And Jove now reigned ; for on the race 

of man 
First famine, and then toil, and then 

disease. 
Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen 

before. 
Fell ; and the unseasonable seasons 

drove 
With alternating shafts of frost and fire. 
Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain 

caves : 
And in their desert hearts fierce wants 

he sent. 
And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle 
Of unreal good, which levied mutual 

war. 
So ruining the lair wlierein they raged. 
Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned 

hopes 
Which sleep within folded Elysian 

flowers, 
Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless 

blooms, 
That they might hide with thin and 

rainbow wings 
The shape of Death ; and Love he sent 

to bind 
The disunited tendrils of that vine 
Which bears the wine of life, the human 

heart ; 



And he tamed fire which, like some 

beast of prey. 
Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath 
The frown of man ; and tortured to his 

will 
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of 

power. 
And gems and poisons, and all subtlest 

forms 
Hidden beneath the mountains and the 

waves. 
He gave man speech, and speech created 

thought, 
Wliich is the measure of the universe ; 
And Science struck the thrones of earth 

and heaven. 
Which shook, but fell not ; and the 

harmonious mind 
Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song ; 
And music lifted up the listening spirit 
Until it walked, exempt from mortal 

care, 
Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet 

sound ; 
And human hands first mimicked and 

then mocked, 
With moulded limbs more lovely tha?i 

its own. 
The human form, till marble grew 

divine ; 
And mothers, gazing, drank the love 

men see 
Reflected in their race, behold, and 

perish. 
He told tlie hidden power of herbs and 

springs, 
And Disease drank and slept. Death 

grew like sleep. 
He tauglit tlie implicated orbits woven 
Of the wide-wandering stars ; and how 

the sun 
Changes his lair, and by what secret 

spell 
The pale moon is transformed, when her 

broad eye 
Gazes not on the interlunarsea : 
He taught to rule, as life directs the 

limbs. 
The tempest-winged chariots of the 

Ocean, 
And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities 

then 
Were built, and through their snow-like 

columns flowed 
The warm winds, and the azure aether 

shone, 
And the blue sea and shadowy hills were 

seen. 
Such, the alleviations of his state, 



SHELLEY 



319 



Prometlieus gave to man, for which he 

hangs 
Withering in destined pain : but who 

rains down 
Evil, the immedicable plague, which, 

while 
Man looks on his creation like a God 
And sees that it is glorious, drives him 

on 
The wreck of his own will, the scorn of 

eartli , 
The outcast, the abandoned, the alone ? 
Not Jove : while yet his frown shook 

heaven, ay when 
His adversary from adamantine chains 
Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. 

Declare 
Who is liis master ? Is he too a slave ? 
Demogorgon. All spirits are enslaved 

which serve things evil : 
Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 
Asia. Whom called'st thou God ? 
Demogorgon. I spoke but as ye 

speak, 

For Jove is the supreme of living things. 

Asia. Who is the master of the slave ? 

Demogorgon. If the abysm 

CouW vomit forth its secrets. . . But a 

voice 
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless ; 
For what would it avail to bid thee gaze 
On tlie revolving world? What to bid 

speak 
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and 

Change ? To these 
All things are subject but eternal Love. 
Asia. So much I asked before, and 

my lieart gave 
The response thou hast given ; and of 

sucli truths 
Each to itself must be the oracle. 
One more demand ; and do thou answer 

me 
As mine own soul would answer, did it 

know 
That which I ask. Prometlieus shall 

arise 
Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing 

world : 
When shall the destined hour arrive ? 
Demogorgon. Beliold ! 

Asia. The rocks are cloven, and 

through the purple night 
I see cars drawn by rain bow- winged 

steeds 
Which trample the dim winds : in each 

there stands 
A wild-eved charioteer urging their 

flight. 



Some look behind, as fiends pui'sued 

them there. 
And yet I see no shapes but tlie keen 

stars : 
Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, 

and drink 
With eager lips the wind of their own 

speed, 
As if the tiling they loved fled on before. 
And now, even now, tliey clasped it. 

Their briglit locks 
Stream like a comet's flashing hair : they 

all 
Sweep onward. 

Demogorgon. These are the immortal 

Hours, 
Of whom thou didst demand. One 

waits for thee. 
Asia. A spirit witli a dreadful coun- 
tenance 
Checks its dark chariot by the craggy 

gulf. 
Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer, 
Who art thou ? Whither wouldst thou 

bear me ? Speak ! 
Spirit. I am the shadow of a destiny 
More dread than is my aspect : ere yon 

phinet 
Has set, the darkness which ascends 

with me 
Sliall wrap in lasting night heaven's 

kingless throne. 
Asia. What meanest thou ? 
Panthea. That terrible shadow 

floats 
Up from its throne, as may the lurid 

smoke 
Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. 
Lo ! it ascends the car ; the coursers fly 
Terrified : watch its path among the 

stars 
Blackening the night ! 
Asia. Thus I am answ^ered ; 

strange ! 
Panthea. See. near the verge, another 

chariot stays ; 
An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire. 
Which comes and goes within its sculp- 
tured rim 
Of delicate strange tracery ; the young 

spirit 
That guides it has the dove-like eyes of 

hope ; 
How its soft smiles attract the soul ! as 

light 
Lures winged insects through tlie lamp- 
less air. 

Spirit 
My coursers are fed with the lightning, 



320 



BRITISH POETS 



Tliey drink of the whirlwind's stream, 
And when tlie red morning is brightning 

They batlie in the fi'esli sunbeam ; 

They have strength for their swiftness 
I deem, 
Then ascend with me, daughterof Ocean. 

I desire ; and their speed makes night 
kindle ; 
I fear : they outstrip the Typhoon ; 

Ere tlie cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 
We encircle tlie earth and the moon : 
We shall rest from long labors at noon : 

Then ascend with me,daughter of Ocean. 

SCENE V. — The Car pauses within 
A Cloud on the Top op a Snowy 
Mountain. Asia. Panthea, and the 
Spirit op the Hour. 

Spirit 

On the brink of the night and the 
morning 
My coursers are wont to respire ; 
But the Eartli has just whispered a warn- 
ing 
That their flight must be swifter than 

fire : 
They shall drink the hot speed of 

desire ! 
Asia. Thou breathest on their nostrils, 
but my breath 
Would give them swifter speed. 
Spirit. Alas ! it could not. 

Panthea. Oh Spirit ! pause, and tell 
whence is the light 
Which fills the cloud ? the sun is yet 
unrisen. 
Spirit. The sun will rise not until 
noon. Apollo 
Is held in heaven by wonder ; and the 

light 

Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue 

Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, 

Flows from thy mighty sister. 

Panthea. Yes, I feel — 

Asia. What is it with thee, sister ? 

Thou art pale. 
Panthea. How thou art changed ! I 
dare not look on thee ; 
I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure 
The radiance of thy beauty. Some good 

change 
Is working in the elements, which suffer 
Thy presence thus unveiled. The Ne- 
reids tell 
That on the day when the clear hyaline 
Was cloven at thy uprise, and thou didst 
stand 



Within a veined shell, which floated on 
Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, 
Among the ^gean isles, and by the 

shores 
Which bear thy name ; love, like the 

atmosphere 
Of the sun's fire filling the living world, 
Burst from thee, and illumined earth 

and heaven 
And the deep ocean and the sunless 

caves 
And all that dwells wnthin tlieni ; till 

grief cast 
Eclipse upon the soul from which it 

came : 
Such art thou now ; nor is it I alone. 
Thy sister, thy companion, thine own 

chosen one, 
But the whole world which seeks thy 

sympathy. 
Hearest thou not sounds i'the air which 

speak the love 
Of all articulate beings? Feelest thou 

not 
The inanimate winds enamoi'ed of thee ? 

List ! {Music.) 
Asia. Thy words are sweeter than 

aught else but his 
Whose eclioes they are : yet all love is 

sweet, 
Given or returned. Common as light 

is love. 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining 

air. 
It makes the reptile equal to the God : 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now ; but those who feel itiuost 
Are happier still, after long sufferings, 
As I shall soon become. 
Panthea. List ! Spirits speak. 

Voice in the Air Singing 

Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle 
With their love the breath between 
them ; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 
Make the cold air fire ; then screen 
them 
In those looks, whei'e whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning 
Thro' the vest which seems to hide 
them ; 

As the radiant lines of morning 
Tluo' the clouds ere they divide them ; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 



J 



SHELLEY 



321 



Fair are others ; none beholds thee. 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds tliee 

From the siglit, tliat liquid splendor, 

And all feel, yet see thee never, 

As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Eartli ! where'er tlioii movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brigiit- 
ness. 

And tlie souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

Asia 

My soul is an enchanted boat, 

Wiiich, like a sleeping swan, doth 
float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet 
singing ; 
And thine doth like an angel sit 
Beside a, helm conducting it. 
Whilst all the winds with melody are 
ringing. 
It seems to float ever, for ever. 
Upon that many-winding river, 
Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
A paradise of wildernesses ! 
Till, like one in slumber bound. 
Borne to tlie ocean, I float down, 

around. 
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading 
sound : 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
In music's most serene dominions ; 
Catching the winds that fan that happy 
heaven. 
And we sail on, away, afar, 
Without a course, without a star. 
But, by the instinct of sweet music 
driven ; 
Till through Elysian garden islets 
By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
Wliere never mortal pinnace glided. 
The boat of my desire is guided : 
Realms where the air we breathe is 

love. 
Which in the winds and on the waves 

doth move. 
Harmonizing this earth with what we 
feel above. 

We have pass'd Age's icy caves, 
And Manhood's dark and tossing 
waves. 
And Youtli's smooth ocean, smiling to 
betray : 
21 



Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner 
day : 
A paradise of vaulted bowers. 
Lit by downward-gazing flowers. 
And watery paths that wind between 
Wildernesses calm and green, 
Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 
And rest, having beheld ; somewhat 

like thee : 
Which walk upon the sea, and chant 
melodiously ! 

ACT III 

SCENE I.— Heaven. Jupiter on 
}iis Throne ; Thetis and the other] 
Deities assembled. > 

Jupiter. Ye congregated powers of 

heaven, who share 
The glory and the strength of him ye 

serve, 
Rejoice ! henceforth I am omnipotent. 
All else had been subdued to me ; alone 
The soul of man, like unextinguished fii'e. 
Yet burns towards heaven with fierce 

reproach, and doubt. 
And lamentation, and reluctant prayer. 
Hurling up insurrection, which might 

make 
Our antique empire insecure, though 

built 
On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear ; 
And tho' my curses thro' the pendulous 

air, 
Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake 

by flake. 
And cling to it ; tho' under my wrath's 

night 
It climbs the crags of life, step after step. 
Which wound it, as ice wounds unsan- 

dalled feet, 
It yet remains supreme o'er misery. 
Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall : 
Even now have I begotten a strange 

wonder, 
That fatal child, the terror of the earth. 
Who waits but till the destined hour 

arrive. 
Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant 

throne 
The dreadful might of ever-living limbs 
Wliicli clothed that awful spirit un- 

beheld. 
To redescend, and trample out the spark. 

Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Gany- 
mede, 



322 



BRITISH POETS 



And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire, 
And fi-oin the flower-inwoven soil divine 
Ye all-triumphant harmonies arise, 
As dew from earth under the twilight 

stars : 
Drink ! be tlie nectar circling thro' your 

veins 
The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, 
Till exultation burst in one wide voice 
Like music from Elysian winds. 

And thou 
Ascend beside me, veiled in the light 
Of the desire wliich makes thee one with 

me, 
Thetis, bright image of eternity ! 
When thou didst cry, " Insufferable 

night ! 
God ! Spare me ! I sustain not the quick 

flames. 
The penetrating presence ; all my being. 
Like him whom the Numidian seps did 

thaw 
Into a dew with poison, is dissolved. 
Sinking thro' its foundations : " even then 
Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a 

third 
Mightier than either, w^hich, unbodied 

now, 
Between us floats, felt, although unbe- 

held. 
Waiting the incarnation, whicli ascends, 
(Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wlieels 
Griding tlie winds?) f i-om Demogorgon's 

throne. 
Victory ! victory ! Feel'st thou not, O 

world. 
The earthquake of his chariot thunder- 
ing up 
Olympus ? 

[The Car of the Hour arrives. 

Demogorgon descends, mid moires 

towards the Throne of Jupiter. 

Awful shape, what art thou ? 

Speak ! 
Demogorgon. , Eternity. Demand no 
direr name. 
Descend, and follow me down the abyss. 
I am th}' child, as thou wert Saturn's 

child ; 
ilightier than thee : and we must dwell 

together 
Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy light- 
nings not. 
The tyranny of lieaven none may retain. 
Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee : 
Yet if thou wilt, as 'tis the destiny 
Of trodden worms to writhe till they 

are dead. 
Put forth thy might. 



Jupiter. Detested prodigy ! 

Even thus beneath the deep Titanian 

prisons 
I trample thee ! thou lingerest ? 

Mercj'^ ! mercy ! 
No pity, no release, no respite ! Oh, 
That tliou wouldst make mine enemy 

my judge. 
Even where he hangs, seared by my 

long revenge. 
On Caucasus ! he would not doom me 

thus. 
Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he 

not 
The monarch of the world ? What then 

art thou ? 
No refuge ! no appeal ! 

Sink with me tlien. 
We too will sink on the wide waves of 

ruin. 
Even as a vulture and a snake outspent 
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight, 
Into a slioreless sea. Let liell unlock 
Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire. 
And wlielm on them into the bottomless 

void 
This desolated world, and thee, and me. 
Tlie conqueror and the conquered, and 

the wreck 
Of that for which thej' combated. 

Ai ! Ai ! 
The elements obey me not. I sink 
Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. 
And. like a cloud, mine enemy above 
Darkens my fall with victorj' ! Ai, Ai ! 

SCENE II. — The Mouth of a great 
RrvER IN THE Island Atlantis. Ocean 
is discovered reclining near the Shore ; 
Apollo stands beside him. 

Ocean. He fell, thou sayest, beneath 

his conqueror's frown ? 

Apollo. Aje, when the strife was 

ended which made dim 

The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars. 

The terrors of his eye illumined heaven 

With sanguine light, through the thick 

ragged skirts 
Of the victorious darkness, as he fell : 
Like the last glare of day's red agonj\ 
Which, from a rent among the fiery 

clouds. 
Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled 
deep. 
Ocean. He sunk to the abyss? To the 

dark void ? 
Apollo. An eagle so caught in some 
bursting cloud 



SHELLEY 



3^^ 



On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings 
Entangled in the whirlwind, aud his 

eyes 
Which gazed on the undazzling sun, 

now blinded 
By the white lightning, while the pon- 
derous hail 
Beats on his struggling form, which 

sinks at length 
Prone, and the aerial ice clings over it. 
Ocean. Henceforth the fields of 

Heaven-reflecting sea 
Which are my realm, will heave, un- 
stained with blood. 
Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains 

of corn 
Swayed by the summer air ; my streams 

will flow 
Round many-peopled continents, and 

round 
Fortunate isles ; and from their glassy 

thrones 
Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs 

shall mark 
The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see 
The floating bark of the light- laden 

moon 
With that white star, its sightless pilot's 

crest. 
Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing 

sea ; 
Tracking their path no more by blood 

and groans. 
And desolation, and the mingled voice 
Of slavery and command ! but by the 

light 
Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating 

odors, 
And music soft, and mild, free, gentle 

voices. 
And sweetest music, such as spirits love. 
Apollo. And I shall gaze not on the 

deeds which make 
My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse 
Darkens the sphere I guide ; but list, I 

hear 
The small, clear, silver lute of the young 

Spirit 
That sits i' the morning star. 

Ocean. Thou must away ; 

Thy steeds will pause at even, till when 

farewell : 
The loud deep calls me home even now 

to feed it 
With azure calm out of the emerald 

urns 
Which stand for ever full beside my 

throne. 
Behold the Nereids under the green sea, 



Their wavering limbs borne on the wind- 
like stream. 

Their white arras lifted o'er their stream- 
ing hair 

With garlands pied and starry sea-flower 
crowns. 

Hastening to grace their mighty sister's 
joy. [^4 sound of ivaves is heard. 

It is the unpastured sea hungering for 
c;ilm. 

Peace, monster ; I come now. Fare- 
well. 
Apollo. Farewell. 

SCENE III. — Caucasus. Prometheus, 
Hercules, Ione. the Earth, Spir- 
its. Asia, and Panthea, home 
in the Car with the Spirit of the 
Hour. Hercules unbinds Prome- 
theus, icho descends. 

Hercnles. Most glorious among 

spirits, thus doth strength 
To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering 

love. 
And thee, who art the form they ani- 
mate, 
Minister like a slave. 

Prometheus. Thy gentle words 

Are sweeter even than freedom long 

desired 
And long dela5'ed. 

Asia, thou light of life, 
Sliadow of beauty un beheld : and ye. 
Fair sister nymphs, who made long 

years of pain 
Sweet to remember, thro' your love and 

cai'e : 
Henceforth we will not part. There is 

a cave. 
All overgrown with trailing odorous 

plants. 
Which curtain out the day with leaves 

and flowers. 
And paved with veined emerald, and a 

fountain 
Leaps in the midst with an awakening 

sound. 
From its curved roof the mountain's 

frozen tears 
Like snow, or silver, or long diamond 

spires. 
Hang downward, raining forth a doubt- 
ful light : 
And there is heard the ever-moving air, 
Whispering without from tree to tree, 

and birds, 
And bees ; and all around are mossy 

seats, 



324 



BRITISH POETS 



And the rough walls are clothed with 

long soft grass ; 
A simple dwelling, which shall be our 

own ; 
Where we will sit and talk of time and 

change, 
As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves 

unclianged. 
What can hide man from mutability ? 
And if j-e sigh, then I will smile ; and 

thou, 
lone, shalt chant fragments of sea- 
music. 
Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 
The tears she brought, which yet were 

sweet to shed. 
We will entangle buds and flowers and 

beams 
Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, 

and make 
Strange combinations out of common 

things, 
Like human babes in their brief inno- 
cence ; 
And we will search, with looks and 

words of love, 
For hidden thouglits, each lovelier than 

the last. 
Our unexhausted spirits ; and like lutes 
Touched by the skill of the enaxnored 

wind. 
Weave harmonies divine, j'^et ever new. 
From difference sweet where discord 

cannot be ; 
And hither come, sped on the charmed 

winds. 
Which meet from all the points of 

heaven, as bees 
From every flower aerial Enna feeds. 
At their known island-homes in Hiiiiera, 
The echoes of the human world, which 

tell 
Of the low voice of love, almost un- 
heard. 
And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, 

and music. 
Itself the echo of the heart, and all 
That tempers or improves man's life, 

now free ; 
And lovel}' apparitions, dim at first. 
Then radiant, as the mind, arising 

bright 
From the embrace of beautj^, whence 

tlie forms 
Of which these are the phantoms, cast 

on them 
The gathered rays which are reality. 
Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 
Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, 



And arts, tho" uniniagined, yet to be. 
The wandering voices and the shadows 

these 
Of all that man becomes, the mediators 
Of that best worsiiip love, by liim and us 
Given and returned ; swift shapes and 

sounds, which grow 
More fair and soft as man grows wise 

and kind. 
And. veil by veil, evil and error fall : 
Such virtue has the cave and place 

around. 
[Turning to the Sinrit of the Hour. 
For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. 

lone, 
Give her that curved shell, which Pro- 
teus old 
Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing 

within it 
A voice to be accomplished, and which 

thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow 

rock. 
lone. Thou most desired Hour, more 

loved and lovely 
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic 

shell ; 
See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft j'et glowing light : 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeiJing 

there ? 
Sjyirit. It seeius in truth the fairest 

shell of Ocean : 
Its sounds mvist be at once both sweet 

and strange. 
Prometheus. Go, borne over the 

cities of mankind 
On whirlwind-footed coursers : once |J 

again I 

Outspeed the sun around the orbed world ; 
And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling 

air. 
Thou breathe into the many-folded shell. 
Loosening its mighty music ; it sliall be 
As thunder mingled with clear echoes : 

then 
Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside our 

cave. 
And thou, O, Mother Earth !— 

The Earth. I hear, I feel ; 

Tliy lips are on me, and thj^ touch runs 

down 
Even to the adamantine central gloom 
Along these marble nerves ; 'tis life, 'tis 

joy. 

And tlu-ough my withered, old and icy 

frame 
The warmth of an immortal youth shoots 

down 



SHELLEY 



325 



Circling. Henceforth the many children 

fair 
Folded in my sustaining arms ; all 

plants. 
And creeping forms, and insects rain- 
bow-winged, 
And birds, and beasts, and fish, and 

human sliapes, 
Which drew disease and pain from my 

wan bosom. 
Draining the poison of despair, shiiil 

take 
And interchange sweet nutriment ; to me 
Shall they become like sister antelopes 
By one fair dam, snow-white and swift 

as wind. 
Nursed among lilies near a brimming 

stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall 

float 
Under tlie stars like balm : night-folded 

flowers 
Shall suck unwithering hues in their 

repose : 
And men and beasts in happy dreams 

shall gathei' 
Strength for the coming day. and all its 

joy: 
And death shall be the last embrace of 

lier 
Who takes the life she gave, even as a 

mother 
Folding her child, says, "Leave me not 

again." 
Asia. Oil, mother ! wherefore speak 

tlie name of deatli ? 
Cease tliey to love, and move, and 

breathe, and speak. 
Who die V 

The Earth. It would avail not to 

reply : 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is 

known 
But to the uncommunicating dead. 
Death is the veil which those who live 

call life : 
They sleep, and it is lifted : and mean- 
while 
In mild variet.y tlie seasons mild 
With rambow-skirted sliowers, and 

odorous winds. 
And long blue meteors cleansing the 

dull night. 
And the life-kindling sliafts of the keen 

sun's 
All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled 

rain 
Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence 

mild, 



Shall clothe the forests and the fields, 

ay, even 
Tlie crag-built deserts of the barren deep, 
With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and 

flowers. 
And thou ! There is a cavern where my 

spirit 
Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy 

pain 
Made my heart mad, and those who did 

inhale it 
Became mad too, and built a temple 

there. 
And spoke, and were oracular, and lured 
Tlie erring nations round to mutual war, 
And faithless faith, such as Jove kept 

with thee ; 
Which breath now rises, as amongst tall 

weeds 
A violet's exhalation, and it fills 
With a serener light and crimson air 
Intense, j'et soft, the rocks and woods 

around ; 
It feeds the quick growth of the serpent 

vine, 
And the dark linked ivy tangling wild, 
And budding, blown, or odor-faded 

blooms 
Which star the winds with points of 

colored light. 
As they rain thro' them, and bright 

golden globes 
Of fruit, suspended in their own green 

heaven. 
And thro' their veined leaves and amber 

stems 
The flowers whose purple and trans- 
lucid bovs^ls 
Stand ever mantling with aerial dew. 
The drink of spirits : and it circles 

round. 
Like the soft waving wings of noonday 

dreams, 
Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like 

mine. 
Now thou art thus restored. This cave 

is thine. 
Arise ! Appear ! 

[A Spirit rises in the likeness of 
a loinged child. 

This is my torch-bearer ; 
Who let his lamp out in old time with 

gazing 
On eyes from which he kindled it anew 
With love, which is as fire, sweet 

daughter mine. 
For such is that within thine own. Run, 

wayward. 
And guide this company beyond the peak 



326 



BRITISH POETS 



Of Bacchic Nysa, Maenad-haunted moun- 
tain, 
And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, 
Tramjjling the torrent streams and glassy 

lakes 
With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, 
And up tlie green ravine, across the vale. 
Beside the windless and crystalline pool, 
Where ever lies, on unerasing waves. 
The image of a temple, built above, 
Distinct with column, arch, and archi- 
trave, 
And palm-like capital, and over-wrouglit 
And populous most with living imagery, 
Praxitelean shapes, wliose marble smiles 
Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. 
It is deserted now, but once it bore 
Thy name, Prometlieus ; there the emu- 
lous youths 
Bore to thy honor thro' the divine gloona 
The lamp which was thine emblem ; 

even as those 
Who bear the untransmitted torch of 

hope 
Into the grave, across the night of life. 
As tliou hast borne it most triumphantly 
To this far goal of Time. Depart, fare- 
well. 
Beside that temple is the destined cave. 

SCENE IV. A Forest. In the Back- 
ground A Cave, Prometheus, Asia. 
Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the 
Earth. 

Io7ie. Sister, it is not eai'thly : how it 
glides 

Under the leaves ! how on its head there 
burns 

A light, like a green star, whose em- 
erald beams 

Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as 
it moves. 

The splendor drops in flakes upon the 
grass ! 

Knowest thou it ? 
Pcmthea. It is the delicate spirit 

That guides the earth thro' heaven. 
From afar 

The populous constellations call that 
Jight 

The loveliest of the planets ; and some- 
times 

It floats along the spray of the salt sea, 

Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud. 

Or walks thro' fields or cities while men 
sleep. 

Or o'er the mountain toi)s, or down the 
rivers, 



Or thro' the green waste wilderness, as 

now, 
Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove 

reigned 
It loved our sister Asia, and it came 
Each lei.sure hour to drink the liquid 

light 
Out of her eyes, for which it said it 

thirsted 
As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
It made its childish confiaence, and told 

her 
All it had known or seen, for it saw 

much. 
Yet idly reasoned what it saw ; and 

called her — 
For wJience it sprung it knew not, nor 

do I— 
Mother, dear mother. 

T]ie Spii'it of the Earth (running to 

Asia). Motlier. dearest mother ; 
May I then talk with thee as I was 

wont ? 
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft 

arms. 
After thy looks have made them tired of 

joy? 
May I then play beside thee the long 

noons. 
When work is none in the bright silent 

air? 
Asia, I love thee, gentlest being, and 

henceforth 
Can cherish thee unenvied : speak, I 

pray : 
Thy simple talk once solaced, now de- 
lights. 
Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am 

grown wiser, though a child 
Cannot be wise like thee, within this 

day ; 
And happier too ; happier and wiser both. 
Thou knowest that toads, .find snakes, 

and loathly worms. 
And venomous and malicious beasts, 

and boughs 
That bore ill berries in the woods, were 

ever 
An hindrance to my walks o'er the green . . 

world : || 

And that, among the liaunts of human- \ 1 

kind. 
Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry 

looks. 
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow 

smiles. 
Or the (lull sneer of self-loved ignorance. 
Or otlier such foul masks, with which 

ill thoughts 



SHELLEY 



327 



Hide that fair being whom we sjjirits 

call man ; 
And women too, ugliest of all things 

evil, 
(Tho' fair, even in a world where thou 

art fair, 
When good and kind, free and sincere 

like thee). 
When false or frowning made me sick 

at heart 
To pass them, tho' they slept, and I un- 
seen. 
Well, my path lately lay thro' a great 

city 
Into the woody hills surrounding it : 
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate : 
When tiiere was heard a sound, so loud 

it shook 
The towers amid the moonlight, yet 

more sweet 
Than any voice but thine, sweetest of 

all ; 
A long, long sound, as it would never 

end : 
And all the inhabitants leapt suddenly 
Out of their rest, and gathered in the 

streets, 
Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while 

yet 
The music pealed along. I hid myself 
Within a fountain in the public square, 
Where I lay like the reflex of the moon 
Seen in a wave under green leave,"- ; and 

soon 
Those ugly human shapes and visages 
Of wliich I spoke as having wrought me 

pain. 
Passed floating thro' the air, and fading 

still 
Into the winds that scattered them ; and 

those 
From whom they passed seemed mild 

and loyel}' forms 
After some foul disguise had fallen, and 

all 
Were somewhat changed, and after brief 

surprise 
And greetings of delighted wonder, all 
Went to their sleep again : and when 

the dawn 
Came, would'st thou think that toads, 

and snakes, and efts. 
Could e'er be beautiful ?.yet so they were. 
And that with little change of shape or 

hue : 
All things had i>ut their evil nature off ; 
I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake 
Upon a drooping bough with night- 
shade twined. 



I saw two azure halcyons clinging down- 
ward 
And thinning one bright bunch of 

amber berries. 
With quick long beaks, and in the deep 

there lay 
Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky ; 
So, with my thoughts full of these happy 

changes, 
We meet again, the happiest change of 

all. 
Asia. And never will we part, till 

thy chaste sister 
Who guides the frozen and inconstant 

moon 
Will look on thy more warm and equal 

light 
Till her heart thaw like flakes of April 

snow 
And love tliee. 
Sjjirit of the Earth. What ; as 

Asia loves Prometheus ? 
Asia. Peace, wanton, thou art yet 

not old enough. 
Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes 
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
With sphered fires the interlunar air ? 
Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, 

wliile my sister trims her lamp 
'Tis hard I should go darkling. 
Asia. Listen ; look ! 

The Spirit of the Hour enters. 

Prometheus. We feel what thou hast 

heard and seen ; yet speak. 
Spirit of the Hour. Soon as the sound 
had ceased whose thunder filled 

The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, 

There was a change : the impalpable 
thin air 

And the all-circling sunlight were trans- 
formed , 

As if the sense of love dissolved in them 

Had folded itself round the sphered 
world . 

My vision then grew clear, and I could 
see 

Into the mysteries of the universe : 

Dizzy as with delight I floated down ; 

Winnowing the lightsome air with lan- 
guid plumes. 

My coursers sought their birthplace in 
the sun, 

Where they henceforth will live exempt 
from toil 

■Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire ; 

And where my moonlike car will stand 
within 

A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 



3^8 



BRITISH POETS 



Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and 

me, 
And you fair nymphs looking the love 

we feel, — 
In memory of the tidings it has borne, — 
Beneath a dome fretted with graven 

flowers, 
Poised on twelve columns of resplendent 

stone. 
And open to the bright and liquid sky. 
Yoked to it by an ainphisbenic snake 
The likeness of those winged steeds will 

mock 
The flight from wliich they find repose. 

Alas, 
Whither has wandered now my partial 

tongue 
When all remains untold which ye 

would hear ? 
As I have said I floated to the earth : 
It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
To move, to breathe, to be ; I wander- 
ing went 
Among the haunts and dwellings of 

mankind. 
And first was disappointed not to see 
Such mighty change as I had felt within 
Expressed in outward tilings ; but soon 

I looked. 
And behold, thrones were kingless, and 

men walked 
One with the other even as spirits do, 
None fawned, none trampled ; hate, 

disdain, or fear. 
Self-love or self-contempt, on human 

brows, 
No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of 

hell, 
" All hope abandon ye who enter here ; " 
None frowned, none trembled, none 

with eager fear 
Gazed on another's eye of cold command. 
Until the subject of the tyrant's will 
Became, worse fate, the abject of liis 

own, 
Which spurred him, like an outspent 

horse, to deatli. 
None wrouglit his lips in trutli-entang- 

ling lines 
Which smiled the lie his tongue dis- 
dained to speak ; 
None, with firm sneer, trod out in his 

own heart 
The sparks of love and hope till there 

remained 
Those bitter ashes, a soul self -consumed, 
And the wretch crept a vampire among 

men. 
Infecting all with liis own hideous ill ; 



None talked that common, false, cold, 

hollow talk 
Which makes the heart deny the yes it 

breathes. 
Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 
With sucli a self-mistrust as has no 

name. 
And women, too, frank, beautiful, and 

kind 
As the free heaven which rains fresh 

light and dew 
On the wide earth, passed ; gentle radi- 
ant forms. 
From custom's evil taint exempt and 

pure ; 
Speaking tlie wisdom once they could 

not tliink. 
Looking emotions once they feared to 

feel. 
And changed to all which once they 

dared not be. 
Yet being now, made earth like heaven ; 

nor pride. 
Nor jealousy, nor envj-. nor ill shame, 
The bitterest of those drops of treasured 

gall. 
Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, 

love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and 

prisons, wherein, 
And beside which, by wretched men 

were borne 
Scejitres, tiaras, swords, and cliains, 

and tomes 
Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignor- 
ance, 
Were like those monstrous and barbaric 

shapes. 
The ghosts of a no more remembered 

fame, 
Wliich, from tlieir unworn obelisks, 

look forth 
In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 
Of those who were their conquerors : 

mouldering round 
Those imaged to the pride of kings and 

priests, 
A dark yet mighty faith, a power as 

wide 
As is the woi'ld it wasted, and are now 
But an astonislinient ; even so the tools 
And emblems of its last captivity, 
Amid the dwellings of the peopled 

earth, 
Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded 

now. 
And those foul shapes, abhorred by god 

and man, 



SHELLEY 



329 



Which, under many a name and many a 

form. 
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark and 

execrable, 
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world ; 
And wliich the nations, panic-stricken, 

served 
With blood, and liearts broken by long 

hope, and love 
Dragged to liis altars soiled and garland- 
less. 
And slain among men's unreclaiming 

tears, 
Flattering the tiling they feared, which 

fear was hate. 
Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their 

abandoned shrines : 
The painted veil, by those who were, 

called life. 
Which mimicked, as wifla coloi's idly 

spread, 
All men believed and hoped, is torn 

aside ; 
The loathsome mask has fallen, the man 

remains 
Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but 

man 
Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nation- 
less. 
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the 

king 
Over himself ; just, gentle, wise : but 

man 
Passionless ; no, yet free from guilt or 

pain. 
Which were, for his will made or suffered 

them. 
Nor yet exempt, tho' ruling them like 

slaves. 
From chance, and death, and mutability, 
The clogs of that which else miglit over- 
soar 
The loftiest star of unascended Iieaven, 
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. 

ACT IV 

Scene, a Part of the Forest near the 
Cave of Prometheus. Panthea 
and loNE ai'c sleeping : they awaken 
gradually during the first Song. 

Voice of unseen S23irits 
Tlie pale stars are gone ! 
For the sun, tlieir swift shepherd, 
To their folds them compelling. 
In the depths of the dawn. 
Hastes, in meteor-ecli[)sing array, and 
they flee 



Beyond his blue dwelling, 

As fawns flee the leopard. 

But where are ye ? 

^4. Train of dark Forms and Shadoivs 
passes by confusedly, singing. 

Here, oh, here : 

We bear tlie bier 
Of the Father of many a cancelled year ! 

Specti'es we 

Of the dead Hours be, 
We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. 

Strew, oh, strew 

Hair, not yew ! 
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew ! 

Be the faded flowers 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the King of 
Hours ! 

Haste, oh, haste ! 

As shades are chased. 
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue 
waste. 

We melt away. 

Like dissolving spray. 
From the children of a diviner day, 

With the lullaby 

Of winds that die 
On the bosom of their own harmony ! 

lone 
What dark forms were they ? 

Panthea 
The past Hours weak and gray, 
With the spoil whicli their toil 

Raked togetiier 
From the conquest but One could 
foil. 

lone 
Have they past ? 
PantJiea 

They have past ; 
They outspeeded the blast. 
While 'tis said, they are fled : 

lone 
Whither, oh, whither ? 

Panthea 

To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 

Voice of unseen Spirits 

Bright clouds float in heaven. 
Dew-stars gleam on earth. 
Waves assemble on ocean, 
Tliey are gathered and driven 



33° 



BRITISH POETS 



By the storm of delight, by the panic of 
glee ! 
Tliey sliake witli emotion, 
They dance in their mirth. 
But where are ye ? 

The pine boughs are singing 
Old songs with new gladness, 
Tlie billows and fountains 
Fresh music are flinging, 
Like tlie notes of a spirit from land and 
from sea ; 
The storms mock the mountains 
With the thunder of gladness. 
But where are ye ? 

lone. Wliat charioteers are these ? 
Panihea. Where are their 

chariots ? 

Semichorus of Hours 

The voice of the Spirits of Air and of 
Earth 
Have drawn back the figured curtain 
of sleep 
Whicli covered our being and darkened 
our birth 
In the deep. 

A Voice 

In the deep ? 

Semichorus II 

Oh, below the deep. 

Semichorus I 

An hundred ages we had been kept 

Cradled in visions of liate and care, 
And each one who waked as his brother 

slei)t, 
Found the truth — 

Semichorus II 

Worse than his visions were ! 

Semichorus I 

We liave lieard the lute of Hope in sleej) ; 
We have known the voice of Love in 

dreams. 
We have felt the wand of Power, and 

leap — 

Seviichorus II 

As the billows leap in the morning 
beams ! 

Chortis 

Weave the dance on the floor of the 
breeze, 
Pierce with song heaven's silent light, 



Enchant the day that too swiftly flees. 
To check its flight ere the cave of 
night. 

Once the hungry Hours were hounds 
Wliich chased tlie day like a bleeding 
deer. 
And it limped and stumbled with many 
wounds 
Through the nightly dells of the 
'desert year. 

But now, oh weave the mystic measure 

Of music, and dance, and shapes of 

light, 

Let the Hours, and the spirits of might 

and i^leasure, 

Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 

A Voice 

Unite! 
Panthea. See, where the Spirits of 
the human mind 
Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, 
approach. 

Chorus of Spirits 

We join the throng 

Of the dance and the song. 
By the whirlwind of gladness borne 
along ; 

As the flying-fish leap 

From tlie Indian deep. 
And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. 

Chorus of Hours 

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, 
For sandals of lightning are on vour 

feet, ' 11 

And your wings are soft and swift as II 

thought, " 

And your eyes are as love which is veiled 

not? 

Chorus of Spirits 

We come from the mind 

Of human kind 
Whicli was late so dusk, and obscene, 
and blind, 

Now 'tis an ocean 

Of clear emotion, 
A heaven of serene and mighty motion ; 

Fi'om that deep abyss 

Of wonder and bliss. 
Whose caverns ai'e crystal palaces ; 

From those skiey towers 

Where Thought's crowned powers 
Sit wiitching your dance, ye happy 
Hours ! 



SHELLEY 



35^ 



From the dim recesses 
Of woven caresses, 
Where lovers catch ye by your loose 
tresses ; 
From the azure isles. 
Where sweet Wisdom smiles, 
Delaying your ships with her siren 
wiles. 

From the temples high 

Of Man's ear and eye, 
Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy ; 

From the murmurings 

Of the unsealed springs 
Where Science bedews his Daedal wings. 

Years after years, 
Through blood, and tears, 
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, 
and fears ; 
We waded and flew, 
And the islets were few 
Where the "bud-blighted flowers of hap- 
piness grew. 

Our feet now, every palm, 

Are sandalled with calm, 
And the dew of our wings is a rain of 
balm ; 

And, beyond our eyes, 

The human love lies 
Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. 

Chonis of S2nrits and Hours 

Then weave the web of the mystic 

measure ; 
From the depths of the sky and the ends 

of the ear til, 
Come, swift Spirits of might and of 

pleasure, 
Fill the dance and the music of mirth. 
As the waves of a thousand streains 

rush by 
To an ocean of splendor and harmony ! 

Chorus of Sjnrits 

Our spoil is won, 

Our task is done. 
We are free to dive, or soar, or run ; 

Beyond and around, 

Or within the bound 
Whicli clips the world with darkness 
round. 

We'll pass the eyes 
Of the starry skies 
Into the hoar deej) to colonise : 
Death, Chaos, and Night, 



From the sound of our flight, 
Sliall flee, like mist from a tempest's 
might. 

And Earth, Air, and Light, 
And the Spirit of Might, 
Which drives round the stars in their 
fiery flight ; 
And Love, Thought, and Breath, 
The powers that quell Death, 
Wherever we soar shall assemble be- 
neath. 

And our singing shall build 
In the void's loose field 
A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to 
wield : 
We will take our plan 
From the new world of man. 
And our work shall be called the Pro- 
methean. 

Chorus of Hours 

Break the dance, and scatter the song ; 
Let some depart, and some remain. 

Semichorus I 
We, beyond heaven, are driven along ! 

Semichorus H 
Us the enchantments of earth retain : 

Semichoi'us I 

Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free, 
With the Spirits which build a new earth 

and sea. 
And a lieaven where yet heaven could 

never be. 

Semichorus H 

Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, 
Leading the Day and outspeeding tlie 

Night, 
With tlie powers of a world of perfect 

light. 

Semichorus I 

We whirl, singingloud, round the gather- 
ing sphere, 

Till the trees, and the beasts, and the 
clouds appear 

From its chaos made calm by love, not 
fear. 

Semichorus II 

We encircle the ocean and mountains of 

earth, 
And the l)appy forms of its deatli and 

birth 



332 



BRITISH POETS 



Change to the music of our sweet mirth. 
Chorus of Hours and Spirits 

Break the dance, and scatter the song, 

Let some depart, and some remain, 
Wherever we tiy we lead along 
In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet 
strong. 
The clouds that are heavy with love's 
sweet rain. 

Panthea. Ha ! they are gone ! 
lone. Yet feel you no delight 

From the past sweetness? 

Panthea. As the bare green hill 

When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, 
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny 

water 
To the unpavilioned sky ! 

lone. Even whilst we speak 

New notes arise. What is that awful 

sound? 
Panthea. ' Tis the deep music of the 

rolling world 
Kindling within the strings of the waved 

air, 
^olian modulations. 

lone. Listen too, 

How every pause is filled w^ith linder 

notes, 
Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones. 
Which pierce the sense, and live within 

the soul, 
As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal 

air 
And gaze upon themselves witliin the sea. 
Panthea. But see where througli two 

openings in the forest 
Which lianging branclies overcanopy. 
And where two runnels of a rivulet. 
Between tlie close moss violet-inwoven. 
Have made their path of melody, like 

sisters 
Who iiart with siglis that they may meet 

in smiles. 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad 

thoughts ; 
Two visions of strange radiance float 

upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong 

sound. 
Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet 
Under the ground and through the wind- 
less air. 
lone. I see a chariot like that thinnest 

boat, 
In which the mother of the months is 

borne 



By ebbing night into her western cave. 
When she upsprings from interlunar 

dreams, 
O'er which is curved an orblike canopy 
Of gentle darkness, and the hills and 

woods 
Distinctly seen through that dusk airy 

veil. 
Regard like shapes in an enchanter's 

glass ; 
Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and 

gold, 
Such as the genii of tlie thvmderstorm 
Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 
When the sun rushes under it ; they roll 
And move and grow as with an inward 

wind ; 
Within it sits a winged infant, white 
Its countenance, like the whiteness of 

bright snow. 
Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost. 
Its limbs gleam white, through the wind 

flowing folds 
Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. 
Its hair is white, the biightness of vvhite 

light 
Scattered in strings ; yet its two eyes 

are heavens 
Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 
Within seems pouring, as a storm is 

poured 
From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy 

lashes, 
Tempering the cold and radiant air 

around. 
With fire that is not brightness : in its 

hand 
It sways a quivering moonbeam, from 

whose point 
A guiding power directs the chariot's 

prow 
Over its wheeled clouds, which as tliey 

roll 
Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, 

wake sounds, 
Swefc,"^ as a singing rain of silver dew. 
Panthea. And from the other open- 
ing in the wood 
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind har- 
mony, 
A sphere, which is as many thousand 

spheres. 
Solid as cr3\stal, yet throvigh all its mass 
Flow, as through empty space, music 

and light : 
Ten thousand orbs involving and in- 
volved. 
Purple and azure, white, and green, and 

golden, 



SHELLEY 



333 



Sphere within sphere ; and every space 

between 
Peopled with unimaginable shapes, 
Such as ghusts dream dwell in the lamp- 
less deep, 
Yet eacii inter transpicuous, and they 

whirl 
Over eacii other with a thousand motions, 
Upon a thousand sightless axles spin- 
ning. 
And with the force of self-destroying 

swiftness. 
Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on. 
Kindling with mingled sounds, and 

many tones, 
Intelligible words and music wild. 
With mighty whirl the multitudinous 

orb 
Grinds the bright brook into an azure 

mist 
Of elemental subtlety, like light : 
And the wild odor of tiie forest flowers, 
Tiie music of the living gi-ass and air. 
The emerald light of leaf-entangled 

beams 
Round its intense yet self-conflicting 

speed , 
Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 
Which drowns the sense. Within the 

orb itself. 
Pillowed upon its alabaster arms. 
Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet 

toil. 
On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, 
The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 
And you can see its little lips are moving, 
Amid tlie changing light of their own 

smiles. 
Like one who talks of what he loves in 

di'eam. 
lone. 'T is onl}'' mocking the orb's 

harmony. 
Panthea. And from a star upon its 

forehead, shoot. 
Like swords of azure fire, or golden 

spears 
With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined. 
Embleming heaven and eartii united 

now, 
Vast beams like spokes of some invisible 

wheel 
Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter 

than thought. 
Filling the ab^'ss with sun-like lighten- 

ings, 
And perpendicular now, and now trans- 
verse. 
Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce 

and pass, 



Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep 

heart ; 
Infinite mine of adamant and gold. 
Valueless stones, and unimagined gems. 
And c;averns on crystalline columns 

poised 
Witii vegetable silver overspread ; 
Wells of unfathomed fire, and M'ater 

springs 
Whence the great sea, even as a cliild is 

fed, 
Whose vapors clothe earth's monarcli 

mountain- tops 
With kingly ermine snow. The beams 

flash on 
And make appear the melancholy ruins 
Of cancelled cycles ; anchors, beaks of 

ships ; 
Planks turned to marble ; quivers, helms, 

and spears, 
And gorgon-headed targes, and the 

wheels 
Of scythed chariots and the emblazonry 
Of trophies, standards, and armorial 

beasts. 
Round which death laughed, sepulchred 

emblems 
Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
Tlie wrecks beside of many a city vast. 
Whose population which the earth grew 

over 
Was mortal, but not human : see. thev 

lie, 
Their monstrous works, and uncouth 

skeletons, 
Their statues, homes and fanes; pro- 
digious shapes 
Huddled in gray annihilation, split. 
Jammed in the hard, black deep ; and 

over these. 
The anatomies of unknown winged 

things. 
And fishes which were isles of living 

scale. 
And serpents, bony chains, twisted 

around 
The iron crags, or within liea])s of dust 
To which the tortuous strength of their 

last pangs 
Had crushed the iron crags ; and ovei' 

these 
The jagged alligator, and tlie might 
Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which 

once 
Were monarch beasts, and on the slimj' 

shores. 
And weed-overgrown continents of earth. 
Increased and multiplied like summer 

worms 



334 



BRITISH POETS 



On an abandoned corpse, till the blue 

globe 
Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and 

thej' 
Yelled, gasped, and were abolished ; or 

some God 
Wliose throne was in a comet, passed, 

and cried, 
Be not ! And like my words they were 

no more. 

Hie Earth 

The joy, the triumpli, the delight, the 

madness ! 
The boundless, overflowing, bursting 

gladness, 
The vaporous exultation not to be con- 

finei ! 
Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight 
Which wraps me, like an atmosphere 

of light, 
And bears me as a cloud is borne by its 

own wind. 

Tlie Moon 

Brother mine, calm wanderer, 
Happy globe of land and air. 
Some Spirit is darted like a beam from 
thee, 
Winch penetrates my frozen frame, 
And passes with the warmth of flame, 
Witli love, and odor, and deep melody 
Tlirough me, through me ! 

The Earth 

Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my liollow 

mountains. 
My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting 

fountains 
Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable 

laughter. 
The oceans, and the deserts, and the 

abysses. 
And the deep air's unmeasured 

wildernesses, 
Answer from all their clouds and billows, 

echoing after. 

They cry aloud . as I do. Sceptred 
curse. 

Who all our green and azure universe 
Threatenedst to muffle round with black 
destruction, sending 

A solid cloud to rain hot thunder- 
stones. 

And splinter and knead down my 
children's bones, 
All I bring forth, to one void mass, 
battering and blending. 



Until each crag-like tower, and 

storied column, 
Palace, and obelisk, and temple 

solemn, 
My imperial mountains crowned with 

cloud, and snow, and fire ; 
My sea-like forests, every blade and 

blossom 
Which finds a grave or cradle in my 

bosom. 
Were stamped bj^ thy strong hate into a 

lifeless mire. 

How art thou sunk, withdrawn, 

covered, drunk up 
By thirsty nothing, as the brackish 

CUJ) 

Drained by a desert-ti'oop, a little drop 
for all ; 
And from beneath, around, within, 

above, 
Filling thy void annihilation, love 
Burst in like light on caves cloven by 
the thunder-ball. 

The Moon 

The snow upon my lifeless mountains 
Is loosened into living fountains. 
My solid oceans flow, and sing, and 
shine : 
A spirit from my lieart bursts fortli, 
It clothes with unexpected birth 
My cold liare bosom : Oh ! it must be 
thine 

On mine, on mine ! 

Gazing on thee I feel, I know 
Green stalks burst forth, and bright 
flowers grow, 
And living shapes upon my bosom 
move : 
Music is in the sea and air, 
Winged clouds soar here and there, 
Dark with the rain new buds are dream- 
ing of : 
'Tis love, all love ! 

The Earth 

It interpenetrates my granite mass, 
Through tangled roots and trodden 

claj^ doth pass, 
Into the utmost leaves and delicatest 

flowers ; 
Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis 

spread. 
It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, 
They breathe a spirit up from their 

obscurest bowers, 



SHELLEY 



335 



And like a storm bursting its cloudy 
prison 

With thunder, and with whirlwind, 
has arisen 
Out of tlie lanipless caves of unimagined 
being : 

With earthquake sliock and swift- 
ness making shiver 

Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved 
for ever, 
Tillliate, and fear, and pain, light-van- 
quished shadows, fleeing. 

Leave Man, who was a many-sided 

mirror, 
Which could distort to many a shape 
of error, 
Tliis true fair world of tilings, a sea re- 
flecting love ; 
Which over all his kind as the sun's 
heaven 
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and 

even 
Darting from starry depths radiance and 
life, doth move, 

Leave Man, even as a leprous child 

is left, 
Who follows a sick beast to some 

warm cleft 
Of rocks, tlirough wliich the miglit of 

liealing springs is poured ; 
Tlien when it waiulers home witli 

rosy smile, 
Unconscious, and its mother fears 

awliile 
It is a spirit, then, weeps on lier child 

restored — 

Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked 

tliouglit. 
Of love and might to be divided not. 
Compelling the elements witli adaman- 
tine stress ; [gaze. 
As the sun rules, even with a t3a-ant's 
The unquiet republic of the maze 
Of planets, struggling fierce towards 
heaven's free wilderness — 

Man, one harmonious soul of many 

a soul. 
Whose nature is its own divine control. 
Where all things flow to all, as rivers to 

the sea ; [love ; 

Familiar acts are beautiful through 
Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's 

green grove 
Sport like tame beasts, none knew how 

gentle they could be 1 



His will, with all mean passions, bad 

deliglits. 
And selfish cares, its trembling 

satellites, 
A spirit ill to guide, but miglity to obey. 
Is as a tempest-winged sliip, whose 

lielm 
Love rules, through waves which 

dare not overwhelm, 
Forcing life's wildest shores to own its 

sovereign sway. 

All things confess his strength. 

Through the cold mass 
Of marble and of color his dreams pass ; 
Bright threads wlience mothers weave 
the robes tlieir children wear ; 
Language is a perpetual orpliic song, 
Which rules with Daedal harmony a 
throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else 
senseless and shapeless were. 

The lightning is his slave ; heaven's 
utmost deep 

Gives up her stars, and like a flock of 
sheep 
They pass before his eye, are numbered, 
and roll on ! 

The tempest is Iiis steed, lie strides 
the air ; 

And the abyss shouts from her depth 
laid bare. 
Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man un- 
veils me ; I have none. 

The Moon 

The shadow of white death has past 
From my path in heaven at last, 
A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep ; 
And through mj^ newly- woven bowers. 
Wander hap])y paramours, 
Less mighty, but as mild as those who 
keep 

Thy vales more deep. 

The Earth 

As the dissolving warmth of dawn 

may fold 
A half unfrozen dew-globe, green and 

gold, 
And crystalline, till it becomes a winged 

mist. 
And wanders up the vault of the blue 

day, 
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's 

last ray 
Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and 

amethj'^st, 



336 



BRITISH POETS 



The Moon 

Tliou art folded, thou art lying 
In tlie liglit which is undying 
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile 
divine ; 
All suns and constellations shower 
On thee a light, a life, a power 
Wliich doth array th}^ sphere ; thou 
pourest thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

The Earth 

I spin beneath my pyramid of niglit. 
Which points into the heavens dream- 
ing delight, 
Murmuring victorious joy in my en- 
chanted sleep ; 
As a youth lulled in love-dreams faint- 
ly sighing, 
Under the shadows of liis beauty ly- 
ing. 
Wliicli round his rest a watcli of liglit 
and warmth doth keep. 

Tlie Moon 

As in the soft and sweet eclipse, 
When soul meets soul on lovers* lips, 
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes 
are dull ; 
So when thy shadow falls on me. 
Then am I mute and still, by thee 
Covered ; of thy love, Orb most beautiful, 
Full, oh, too full ! 

Thou art speeding round the sun 
Brightest world of many a one ; 
Green and azure sphere which shinest 
With a light which is divinest 
Among all the lamps of Heaven 
To whom life and light is given ; 
I, thy crystal paramour. 
Borne beside thee bj^ a power 
Like the polar Paradise, 
Magnet-like of lovers' eyes ; 
I, a most enamored maiden 
Whose weak brain is overladen 
With the pleasure of her love. 
Maniac-like around thee move 
Gazing, an insatiate bride. 
On thy form from every side 
Like a Maenad, round the cup 
Which Agave lifted up 
In the weird Cadmasan forest. 
Bi'other, wheresoe'er thou soarest 
I must hurry, whirl and follow 
Through the heavens wide and hollow, 
Sheltered by tlie warm embrace 
Of thy soul from hungry space, 



Drinking from th}' sense and sight 

Beauty, majesty, and might, 

As a lover or chameleon 

Grows like what it looks upon 

As a violet's gentle eye 

Gazes on the azure sky 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds, 

As a gray and watery mist 

Glows like solid amethyst 
Atliwart the western mountain it en- 
folds. 

When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

Tlie Earth 

And the weak day weeps 
That it should be so. 
Oh, gentle Moon, the voice of thv de- 
light 
Falls on me like thy clear and tender 

light 
Soothing the seaman, borne the summer 
night. 
Through isles for ever calm : 
Oh, gentle Moon, thy crystal accents 

pierce 
The caverns of my pride's deep universe, 
Charming the tiger joy, whose tramp- 
lings fierce 
Made wounds which need thy balm. 
Panthea. I rise as from a bath of 
sparkling water, 
A bath of azure light, among dark rocks. 
Out of the stream of sound. 

lone. Ah me ! sweet sister. 

The stream of sound has ebbed away 

from us, 
And you pretend to rise out of its wave. 
Because your words fall like the clear, 

soft dew 
Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's 
limbs and hair. 
Panthea. Peace ! peace ! A mighty 
Power, which is as darkness. 
Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 
Is showered like night, and from within 

the air . , 

Bursts, like eclipse which had been ij 
gathered up ll 

Into the pores of sunlight : the bright 

visions, 
Wherein the singing spirits rode and 

shone. 
Gleam like pale meteors through a 
watery night. 
lone. There is a sense of words upon 

mine ear. 
Panthea. An universal sound like 
words : Oh, list ! 



SHELLEY 



337 



Demogorgon 

Thou, Earth, cahn empire of a happy 
soul, 
Sphere of divinest shapes and liar- 
nionies. 
Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost 
roll 
The love which paves thy path along 
the skies : 

The Earth 

I hear : I am as a drop of dew that 
dies. 

Demogorgon 

Thou, Moon, which gazeston thenightlv 
Earth 
With wonder, as it gazes upon thee : 
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the 
swift birtli 
Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, har- 
mony : 

The Moon 

I hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee ! 

Demogorgon 

Ye kings of suns and stars, Demons and 
Gods, 
Ethereal Dominations, who possess 
Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 
Beyond Heaven's constellated wilder- 
ness : 

A Voice from above 

Our great Republic hears, we are 
blest, and bless. 

Demogorgon 

Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest 
verse 
Are clouds to hide, not colors to 
portray, 
Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and suffered — 

A Voice from beneath 

Or as they 
Whom we have left, we change and 
pass away. 

Demogorgon 

Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 
From man's high mind even to the 
central stone 

Of sullen lead ; from Heaven's star- 
fretted domes 

22 



To the dull weed some sea -worm 
battens on : 

A confused Voice 

We hear : thy words waken Oblivion. 

Demogorgon 

Spirits, whose homes are flesh : ye beasts 
and birds, 
Ye worms, and fish ; ye living leaves 
and buds ; 
Lightning and wind ; and ye untame- 
able herds. 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's 
solitudes : — 

A Voice 

Thy voice to us is wind among still 
woods. 

Demogorgon 

Man,who wert once a despot and a slave; 

A dujie and a deceiver ; a decay ; 
A traveller from the cradle to the grave 

Through tlie dim night of this im- 
mortal day : 

All 

Speak : thy strong words may never 
pass away. 

Demogorgon 

This is the day, wiiich down the void 

abysm 
At the Earth-born's spell yawns for 

Heaven's despotism, 
And Conquest is dragged captive 

througli the deep : 
Love, from its awful throne of patient 

power 
Li the wise heart, from the last giddy 

hour 
Of dead endurance, from the slippery, 

steep. 
And narrow verge of crag-like agony, 

springs 
And folds over the world its healing 

wings. 

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and En- 
durance, 

These are the seals of that most firm 
assurance 
Which bars the pit over Destruction's 
strength ; 

And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 

Motlier of many acts and hours, should 
free 



338 



BRiriSH POETS 



The serpent that would clasp hei* with 

his length ; 
These are the spells by which to reas- 

sume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks in- 
finite ; 

To forgive wrongs darker than death or 
night ; 
To defy Power, which seems omni- 
potent ; 

To love, and bear ; to hope till Hope 
creates 

From its own wreck the thing it con- 
templates ; 
Neither to change, nor falter, nor re- 
pent ; 

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 

Good, great and joyous, beautiful and 
free ; 

This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and 
Victory.i 1S19. 1820. 

' The prominent feature of Shelley's theory of 
the destiny of the human species was that evil is 
not inherent in the system of the creation, but 
an accident that mi.^ht be expelled. This also 
forms a portion of Christianity : God made 
earth and man perfect, till he, by his fall, 

" Brought death into the world and all our woe." 

Shelley believed that mankind had only to will 
that there should be no evil, and there would be 
none. It is not my part in these Notes to notice 
the arguments that have been urged against 
this opinion, but to mention the fact that he en- 
tertained it, and was indeed attached to it with 
fervent enthusiasm. That man could be so per- 
fectionized as to be able to expel evil from his 
own nature, and from the greater part of the 
creation, was the cardinal point of his system. 
And the subject he loved best to dwell on was 
the image of One warring with the Evil Princi- 
ple, oppressed not only by it, but by all— even 
the good, who were deluded into considering evil 
a necessary portion of humanity ; a victim full 
of fortitude and hope and the spirit of triumph, 
emanating from a reliance in the ultimate 
omnipotence of Good. Such he had depicted in 
his last poem, when he made Laon the enemy 
and the victim of tyrants. He now took a more 
idealised image of the same subject. He fol- 
lowed certain classical authorities in figuring 
Saturn as the good principle, Jupiter the usurp- 
ing evil one, and Prometheus as the regenerator, 
who, unable to bring mankind back to primitive 
innocence, used knowledge as a weapon to de- 
feat evil, by leading mankind, beyond the state 
wherein they are sinless through ignorance, to 
that in which they are virtuous through wisdom. 
Jupiter punished the temerity of the Titan by 
chaining him to a rock of Caucasus, and causing 
a vulture to devour his still-renewed heart. 
There was a prophecy afloat in heaven portend- 
ing the fall of Jove, the secret of averting which 
was known only to Prometheus ; and tlie god 
offered freedom from torture on conditii>n of its 
being communicated to him. According to the 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT 

Part First 

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver 

dew. 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the 

light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of 

night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 

mythological story, this referred to the off- 
spring of Thetis, who was destined to be greater 
than his father. Prometheus at last bought 
pardon for his crime of enriching mankind with 
his gifts, by revealing the prophecy. Hercules 
killed the vulture, and set him free ; and Thetis 
was married to Peleus, the father of Achilles. 

Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this story to 
his peculiar views. The son greater than his 
father, born of the nuptials of Jupiter and 
Thetis, was to dethrone Evil, and bring back a 
happier reign than that of Saturn. Prometheus 
defies the power of his enemy, and endures cen- 
turies of torture; till the hour arrives when 
Jove, blind to the real event, but darkly guess- 
ing that some great good to himself will flow, 
espouses Thetis. At the moment, the Primal 
Power of the world drives lum from his usurped 
throne, and Strength, in the per.son of Hercules, 
liberates Humanity, typified in Prometheus, 
from the tortures generated by evil done or 
suffered. Asia, one of the Oceanides, is the wife 
of Prometheus — she was, according to other my- 
thological interpretations, the same as Venus 
and Nature. When the benefactor of mankind 
is liberated, Nature resumes the beauty of her 
prime, and is united to her husband, the emblem 
of the human race, in perfect and happy union. 
In the fourth Act, the Poet gives further scope 
to his imagination, and idealizes the forms of 
creation — such as we know them, instead of such 
as they appeared to the Greeks. Maternal 
Earth, the mighty parent, is superseded by the 
Spirit of the Earth, the guide of our planet 
through the realms of sky ; while his fair and 
weaker companion and attendant, the Spirit of 
tlie Moon, receives bliss from the annihilation of 
Evil in the superior sphere. 

Shelley develops more particularly in the 
lyrics of this drama his abstruse and imagin- 
ative theories with regard to the creation. It 
requires a mind as svibtle and penetrating as his 
own to understand the mystic meanings scat- 
tered throughout the poem. They elude the 
ordinary reader by their abstraction and deli- 
cacy of distinction, but they are far from vague. 
It was his design to write prose metaphysical es- 
says on the nature of Man, which would have 
served to explain much of what is obscure in his 
poetry ; a few scattered fragments of observa- 
tions and remarks alone remain. He considered 
tliese philosophical views of Mind and Nature to 
be instinct with the intensest spirit of poetry. 

More popular poets clothe the ideal with fa- 
miliar and sensible imagery. Shelley loved to 
idealize the real— to gift the mechanism of the 
material universe with a soul and a voice, and to 
bestow such also on the. most delicate and ab- 
stract emotions and thoughts of the mind. 
Sophocles was his great master in this species oJ 
imagery.— (Fcoj/t Mrs. Shelley's note.) 



SHELLEY 



339 



Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's 

dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with 
bliss 

In the garden, the field, or the wilder- 
ness. 

Like a doe in the noontide with love's 
sweet want, 

As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snowdrop and then the violet. 
Arose from the ground with warm rain 

wet. 
And their breath was mixed with fresh 

odor, sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the 

instrument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the 

tulip tall. 
And narcissi, tlie fairest among them all. 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's 

recess, 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion 

so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is 

seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacintli purple, and white, 

and blue. 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal 

anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, .and intense. 
It was felt like an odor within the 

sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath 
addrest, 

Whicli unveiled the depth of her glow- 
ing breast, 

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 

The soul of her beauty and love lay 
bare : 

And the wand-like lil.y, whicli lifted up, 
As a Maenad, its moonlight- colored cup, 
Till tlie fiery star, which is its eye, 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender 
sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet 
tuberose, 



Tlie sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant 
bosom 

Was prankt under boughs of embower- 
ing blossom, 

With golden and green light, slanting 
tiirough 

Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
And starry river-buds glimmered by, 
And around them the soft stream did 

glide and dance 
With a motion of sweet sound and 

radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of 

moss, 
Wliich led through the garden, along 

and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the 

breeze, 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming 

trees, 

Wei"e all paved with daisies and delicate 

bells 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
And flowrets which drooping as day 

drooped too 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and 

blue. 
To roof the glow-worm from the evening 

dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 

The flowers (as an infant's awakening 

eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose siuging 

sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken 

it), 

When Heaven's blithe winds had un- 
folded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 

For each one was interpenetrated 

V¥ith the light and the odor its neigh- 
bor shed, 

Like j'oung lovers whom youth and love 
make dear 

Wrapped and filled by their mutual 
atmosphere. 



340 



BRITISH POETS 



But the Sensitive Plant wliich could 

give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf 

to the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more 

than ever, 
Where none wanted but it, could belong 

to the giver, 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright 

flower : 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart 

is full. 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustain- 

ing wings, 
Shed tlie music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a 

star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear 

afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with liglit and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of tlie living grass ; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, wliich lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides 

high. 
Then wander like spirits among the 

spheres, 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it 

bears ; 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide. 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth 

glide. 
In which every sound, and odor, and 

beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels 

were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to 

bear, 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day 

went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender skj'. 

And when evening descended from 

heaven above, 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air 

was all love. 
And delight, tho' less bright, was far 

more deej). 
And the day's veil fell from the world 

of sleep. 



And the beasts, and the birds, and the 
insects were drowned 

In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 

Whose waves never mark, tho' they 
ever impress 

The light sand which paves it, conscious- 
ness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as tlie day might 

fail, 
And snatches of its El3'sian chant 
Were mixed with the dreams of the 

Sensitive Plant.) 

Tlie Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
A sweet child weary of its delight. 
The feeblest and j-et the favorite. 
Cradled within the eml)iace of night. 

Part Second 

There was a Power in this sweet place. 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers did tliey waken or 

dream. 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely 

mind 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien 

and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the 

ocean , 

Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when night 

walks forth, 
Laughed round her footsteps up from 

the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 

But her tremulous breath and her flush- 
ing face 

Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep 
from her eyes 

That her dreams were less slumber than 
Paradise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet 

sake 
Had deserted heaven while the stars 

were awake. 
As if yet around lier he lingering were, 
Tho' the veil of daylight concealed him 

from her. 



SHELLEY 



341 



Her step seeuiecl to pity tlie grass it 

pressed ; 
You might liear by tlie heaving of her 

breast, 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion 

behind. 

And \A'herever her airy footstep trod. 
Her trailing liair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, vv'itli shadowy 

sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green 

deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden 

sweet 
Rejoiced in the soundof her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not tliey felt the spirit tliat came 
From her glowing fingers tlu'o' all their 

frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the 

stream 
On those that were faint witli tlie sunn v 

beam ; 
And out of tlie cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the tiuinder 

showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender 

hands. 
And sustained them with rods and osier 

bands ; 
If the flowers had been her own infants 

she 
Could never have nursed them more 

tenderly. 

And all killing insects and gnawing 

worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely 

forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof. 
Into tlie rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers 

full, 
The freshest lier gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banished insects, whose 

intent. 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris 
Whose path is tlie liglitning's, and soft 

moths that kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm 

not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 



And many an antenatal tomb, 

AVhere butterflies dream of the life to 

come. 
She left clinging round tlie smooth and 

dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

Tills fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden minis- 
tering 
All the sweet season of summer tide. 
And ere the first leaf looked brown — she 
died ! 

Part Third 

Three days the flowers of tlie garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awakened, 

were. 
Or the waves of Baije, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of 

Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and 

slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners deep and 

low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
And the silent motions of passing death. 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and 

dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coffin 

plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among 

the grass. 
Were briglit with teai's as the crowd did 

pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a 

mournful tone. 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan 

for groan. 

The garden once fair, became cold and 

foul. 
Like the corpse of her who had been its 

soul, 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
And frost in the mist of the morning 

rode. 
Though the noonday sun looked clear 

and bright. 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 



342 



BRITISH POETS 



The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 

snow, 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and 

wan. 
Like the head and the skin of a dying 

man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest tliat ever were fed on dew. 
Leaf by leaf, day after day. 
Were massed into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and graj-, 

and red. 
And white with the whiteness of what 

is dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on tlie dry wind 

past ; 
Their whistling noise made the birds 

agiiast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged 

seeds. 
Out of tlieir birthplace of ugly weeds, 
Till they clung round many a sweet 

flower's stem, 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were 

set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and 

there, 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the 

broken stalks, 
AVere bent and tangled across the walks; 
And the leafless network of parasite 

bowers 
Massed into ruin ; and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time of the wind and the 

snow. 
All loathliest weeds began to grow. 
Whose coarse leaves were splashed with 

manj^ a sijeck. 
Like the water-snake's belly and the 

toad's back. 

And thistles, and nettles, and darnels 
rank. 

And the dock, and henbane, and hem- 
lock dank. 

Stretched out its long and lioUow shank. 

And stifled the air till tiie dead wind 
stank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse 
feels loath, 



Filled the place with a monstrous imder 

growth, 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and 

blue, 
Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 

And agarics, and fungi, with mildew 

and mould 
Started like mist from the wet ground 

cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decajang dead 
With a spirit of growtli had been 

animated ! 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 
Made the running rivulet thick and 

dumb 
And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
Dammed it up with roots knotted like 

water snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was 

still. 
The vapors arose which have strength 

to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they 

were felt. 
At night they were darkness no star 

could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to 

spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; eveiy branch on which they 

alit 
By a venemous blight was burned and 

bit. 

The Sensitive Plant like one forbid 
Wept, and the tears within eacli lid 
Of its folded leaves which together grew 
Were changed to a blight of frozen 
glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches 

soon 
By the heavy axe of the blast were 

hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through 

every pore 
As blood to a heart that will beat no 

more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his 

whip : 
One clioppy finger was on his lip : 
He had torn the cataracts fron\ the hills 
And they clanked at his girdle like 

manacles ; 



SHELLEY 



343 



His breath was a chain which without 

a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water 

bound ; 
He came, fierceh' driven, in his chariot- 

tlirone 
By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of 

living death 
Fled from tlie frost to the earth beneatli. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
AVas but like tlie vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive 

Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for 

want : 
The birds dropped stiff from the frozen 

air 
And were caught in tlie branches naked 

and bai-e. 

First tliere came down a thawing rain 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs 

again, 
Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain 

grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering 

about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child 

out. 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy 

and stiff. 
And snapped them off with his rigid 

griff. 

When winter had gone and spring came 

back 
The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 
But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and 

docks, and darnels. 
Rose like the dead from their ruined 

charnels. 

Conclusion 

Wliether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit 

sat 
Ere its outward form had known decay. 
Now felt this change, I cannot say, 

Wliether that lady's gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness, where it left deliglit. 



I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife. 
Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
And we the shadows of the dream, 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant if one considers it, 
To own that death itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair, 
And all sweet sliapes and odors there. 
In truth have never passed away : 
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed ; not they. 
1820. 1820. 

THE CLOUD 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers. 
From the seas and the sti-eams ; 
I bear light shade for tlie leaves when 
laid 
In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews 
that waken 
The sweet buds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's 
breast, 
As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
And tlieir gi-eat pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey 
bowers, 
Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle 
motion. 
This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In tlie depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and tlie crags, and the 
hills. 
Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream, 
Tlie Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's 
blue smile. 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



344 



BRITISH POETS 



The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes, 
And liis burning plumes outspi'ead, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead, 
As on the jag of a mountain crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and 
s%vings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset maj^ breathe, from the 
lit sea beneatli, 
Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the de})th of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
nest, 
As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
floor. 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet. 
Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken tlie woof of my tenfs 
thin roof, 
Tlie stars peep behind her and j>eer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 
Till the caltn rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me 
on high, 
Are each paved witli the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning 
zone. 
And the moon's with a girdle of 
pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
reel and swim, 
Wlien the whirlwinds my banner 
unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 
shape, 
Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 
The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I 
march 
With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained 
to my chair, 
Is the million-colored bow ; 



The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
Wliile the moist earth was laugliing 
below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean 
and shores : 
I cliange. but I cannot die. 
For after the rain when with never a 
stain. 
The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their 
convex gleams, 
Build up tlie blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a cliild from the womb, like a 
ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 

1820. 1820. 

TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest tli}^ full lieart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
Tlie blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of tlie sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightning, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose I'ace is just 
begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts arovmd thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
.shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardlj' see, we feel that it is 
there. 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 



SHELLEY 



345 



As. when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out lier beams, and 
heaven is overflowed. 

Wliat thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds tliere flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from tliy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hoi^es and fears it 

heeded not : 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace-tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which OA'er- 
flows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which 
screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowei'ed. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these 
heavy-winged tliieves : 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresli, thy music 
doth surpass : 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That i^anted forth a flood of rapture so 
divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
AVhat fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
Wliat shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ig- 
norance of pain ? 

AVith th}'- clear keen joyauce 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad 
satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Tho^^ of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Tlian we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a 
crystal stream? 

AVe look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

AVith some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thought. 

. Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how tliy joy we ever should 
come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of 
the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am 
listening now. ISJO. 1820. 

TO 



A 



I FEAR thy kisses,' gentle maiden, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion. 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 
AVith which I worship thine. 

1820. Ib2-i. 



346 



BRITISH POETS 



ARETHUSA 

Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Aeroceraunian mountains, — 

From cloud and from crag, 

With many a jag, 
Sliepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks. 

With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams ; — 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to tlie western gleams : 

And gliding and springing 

She went, ever singing. 
In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The Earth seemed to love her. 

And Heaven smiled above her. 
As she lingered towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold. 

On his glacier cold, 
AVith his trident the mountains strook 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks ; — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It concealed belli nd 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below. 

The beard and t'he hair 

Of the Rivei--god were 
Seen through the torrenfs sweep. 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide nie, 
For he grasps me now by the hair ! " 

The loud Ocean heard, 

To its blue depth stirred, 
And divided at her prayer ; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream : — 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main 
Alpheus rushed behind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudv wind. 



Under tlie br)\\ ers 

Where the Ocean Powers 
Sit on tlieir pearled thrones. 

Through tlie coral woods 

Of the weltering floods. 
Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 

Through the dim beams 

Which amid the streams 
Weave a network of colored light ; 

And under the caves. 

Where the sViadowj- waA^es 
Are as green as the forest's night ; — 

Outspeeding the shark. 

And the sword-fish dark, 
Under the ocean foam. 

And np through the rifts 

Of the mountain clifts 
They" passed to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks, 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below 
And tlie meadows of Asphodel ; 

And at night thej^ sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortj^gian shore ; 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 

1820. 1824. 

HYMN OF PAN 

From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
Frona the river-girt islands. 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 

The bees on the bells of thyme. 
The birds on the myrtle bushes. 
The cicale above in the lime. 
And the lizards below in the grass. 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolns was. 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 

Liquid Peneus was flowing. 

And all dark Tempe lay 

In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day. 
Speeded by my sweet pipings. 



SHELLEY 



347 



The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 
And the Nymphs of tlie woods and 
wa.ves, 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns. 

And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did tlien attend and follow 
Were silent with love, as you now, 
Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet piping^. 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the deedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars. 

And Love, and Death, and Birth, — 
And then I changed my pip- 
ings,— 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 
I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed : 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 
It breaks in our bosom and then we 
bleed : 
All wept, as I think both ye now would. 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 
ISm. 1834. 

THE QUESTION 

I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the 
way, 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to 
spi'ing. 
And gentle odors led my steps astray. 
Mixed with a sound of waters mur- 
muring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, wliich lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to 
fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the 

stream. 
But kissed it and then fled, as thou 
miglitest in dream. 

Tliere grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the 
earth. 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 
Faint ox lips ; tender bluebells, at 
whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall 
flower that wets — 
Like a child, half in tenderness and 
mirtli — 
Its mother's face with heaven's collected 

tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, 
it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush 
eglantine, 



Green cowbind and the moonlight- 
colored Ma}', 
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, 
whose wine 
Was the bright dew, yet drained not 
by the day ; 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 
Witli its dark buds and leaves, wan- 
dering astray ; 
And flowers azure, black, and streaked 

with gold. 
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge. 
There grew broad flag-flowers, jiurple 
prankt with white. 
And starry river buds among the sedge. 
And floating water-lilies, broad and 
bright. 
Which lit the oak that overliung the 
hedge 
Witli moonlight beams of their own 
watery light ; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep 

green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 
sheen. 

Methought that of these visionarj' flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a 

waj^ 
That the same hues, which in their 

natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like 

array 
Kept these imprisoned children of the 

Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate 

and gay, 
I hastened to the spot whence I had 

come. 
That I might there present it ! — oh ! to 

whom ? ISJO. 1834. 

SONG 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ? 
With the joyous and tiie free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thoti iiast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 



348 



BRITISH POETS 



As a lizard with the sliade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou witli sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the sigiis of grief 
Repi'oach thee, that thou art not near, 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set ni}' mournful ditty 

To a merry measure, 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure, 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresli Earth in new leaves drest, 

And the stariy niglit ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 

When^the golden mists are born. 

1 love snow, and all tlie forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms, 

Every thing almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude. 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
Wliat difference ? but thou dost possess 
Tlie things I seek, not love them less. 

I love Love — thougli he has wings. 

And like ligiit can flee. 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love tiiee — 
Tliou art love and life ! Oh come. 
Make once more my heart thy home. 
18:^0. 1 1824. 

TO THE MOON 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the 
earth. 
Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different 

birth,— 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy? 
1S.'0. 1824. 

' Though included by Mrs. Shelley, and by later 
editors, among the poems of 1821, there is a 
copy of this poem in the Harvard College Man- 
uscripts, dated in Shelley's handwritinsr, " Pisa, 
May, 1830." See uote in Edward Dowden's, 
Edition of Shelley. 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee in thy fiery flight. 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now ? 

Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

AVeary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 
Hast tliou still some seci'et nest 
On the tree or billow ? 

IS.'O. 1824. 

TIME LONG PAST 

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead 

Is Time long past. 
A tone wliich is now forever fled, 
A hope which is now forever past, 
A love so sweet it could not last. 

Was Time long past. 

There were sweet dreams in the night 
Of Time long past : 
xVnd, was it sadness or delight. 
Each day a sliadow onward cast 
Which made us wish it yet might la.st — 
That Time long past. 

There is regret, almost remorse. 

For Time long past. 
'Tis like a child's beloved corse 
A father watches, till at last 
Beauty is like remembrance, cast 

From Time long past. 
1S:20. 1824. 

EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBI^E AND 

UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V , 

NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT 
OF 

L'anima amante si slancia fuori del create, e 
si area nel infinite un Mondo tutto per essa, 
diverse assai daquesto oscuro e pauroso baratro. 
Her own words. 

Sweet Spirit ! Sister of that orphan 

one, 
Wliose empire is tlie name thou weepest 

on. 
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of withered 

memorj-. 



SHELLEY 



349 



Poor captive bird ! who, from thy 
narrow cage, 

Pourest such music, that it might as- 
suage 

Tlie rugged hearts of tliose who prisoned 
thee, 

AVei'e they not deaf to all sweet melody : 

This song shall be thy rose : its petals 
pale 

Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightin- 
gale ! 

But soft and fragrant is the faded 
blossom, 

And it has no thorn left to wound thy 
bosom. 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost 

for ever 
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain en- 
deavor, 
Till those briglit plumes of thought, in 

which arrayed 
It over-soared this low and worldly 

shade, 
Lie shattered ; and thy panting, wounded 

breast 
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal 

nest ! 
I weep vain tears : blood would less 

bitter be. 
Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit 

thee. 

Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to l)e 

human, 
Veiling beneath that radiant form of 

Woman 
All that is insupportable in thee 
Of liglit, and love, and immortality ! 
Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse ! 
Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe ! 
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Thou 

living Form 
Among the Dead ! Tliou Star above the 

Storm ! 
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and 

thou Teri-or ! 
Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! Thou 

Mirror 
In whom, as in the sj^lendor of the Sun, 
All shapes look glorious which thou 

gazest on ! 
Ay, even tlie dim words which obscure 

tiiee now 
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccus- 
tomed glow ; 
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad 

song 
All of its much mortality and wrong, 



With those clear drops, wliicli start like 

sacred dew 
From the twin lights thy sweet soul 

darkens through, 
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecistasy : 
Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 

I never thought before my death to 

see 
Youth's vision tlius made perfect. 

Emily, 
I love tliee ; thougli the world by no 

thin name 
Will iiide that love, from its unvalued 

shame. 
Would we two had been twins of the s;une 

mother ! 
Or, that the name my heart lent to 

another 
Could be a sister's bond for liiev and 

tliee. 
Blending two beams of one eternity ! 
Yet were one lawful and tlie otiier true, 
Tliese names, though dear, could paint 

not, as is due. 
How beyond refuge I am thine. Ali me ! 
I am not tliine : I am a part of tlwe. 

Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse has 

burnt its wings ; 
Or, like a dying swan who soars and 

sings, 
Young Love should teach Time, in his 

own gray style. 
All that tliou art. Art thou not void of 

guile, 
A lovely soul formed to be blest and 

bless ? 
A well of sealed and secret happiness, 
Wliose waters like blitlie light and 

music are. 
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A 

Star 
Whicii moves not in the moving 

Heavens, alone? 
A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle 

tone 
Amid rude voices? a beloved liglit ? 
A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? 
A Lute which tliose wliom Love has 

taught to play 
Make music on, to soothe the roughest 

day 
And lull fond grief asleep? a buried 

treasure ? 
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless 

pleasure ; 
A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? — I 

measure 



35° 



BRITISH POETS 



The world of fancies, seeking one like 

thee, 
And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 

She met me, Stranger, upon life's 
rough way, 
And lured me towards sweet Death ; as 

Niglit by Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift 

Hope. 
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope. 
In the suspended impulse of its light- 
ness, 
Were less ethereally liglit : the bright- 
ness 
Of her divinest presence trembles 

through 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 
Embodied in the windless Heaven of 

June 
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the 

Moon 
Burns, inextinguishably beautiful : 
Ajid from her lips, as from a hyacinth 

full 
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops, 
Killing the sense with passion ; sweet 

as stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits 

dance. 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever 

leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul — too 

deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or 

sense. 
The glory of her being, issuing thence, 
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a 

warm shade 
Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion : one in- 
tense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their. 

flowing 
Around her clieeks and utmost fingers 

glowing 
With the unintermitted blood, which 

there 
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 
The crimson pulse of living morning 

quiver), 
Continuously prolonged, and ending 

never. 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty 

furled 
Which penetrates and clasps and fills 

the world ; 



Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her 

light dress 
And her loose hair ; and where some 

heavj- tress 
The air of her own speed has disentwined, 
The sweetness seems to satiate the faint 

wind ; 
And in the soul a wild odor is felt, 
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that 

melt 
Into the bosom of a frozen bud. — 
See where she stands! a mortal shape 

indued 
With love and life and light and deity. 
And motion which may change but can- 
not die ; 
An image of some bright Eternity ; 
A shadow of some golden dream ; a 

Splendor 
Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a 

tender 
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love 
Under whose motions life's dull billows 

move ; 
A Metaphor of S^jring and Youth and 

Morning ; 
A Vision like incarnate April, warning, 
With smiles and tears, Frost the 

Anatomy 
Into his summer grave. 

Ah, woe is me ! 
What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? 

how 
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
That Love makes all things equal : I 

have heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth 

averred : 
Tlie spirit of the worm beneath the sod 
In love and worship, blends itself with 

God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the 

Fate 
Whose course has been so starless ! Oh, 

too late 
Beloved ! Oli, too soon adored, by me ! 
For in the fields of immortality 
My spirit should at first have worshipped 

thine, 
A divine presence in a place divine ; 
Or should have moved beside it on this 

earth, 
A shadow of that substance, from its 

birth ; 
But not as now : — I love thee ; yes, I feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seal 



SHELLEY 



351 



Is set, to keep its waters pnve and briglit 
For thee, since in those tears thou hast 

delight. 
We — are we not formed, as notes of 

music are, 
For one another, though dissimilar ; 
Such difference without discord, as can 

make 
Those sweetest sounds, in which all 

spirits shake 
As trembling leaves in a continuous air ? 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids 

me dare 
Beacon tlie rocks on which high hearts 

are wrecked. 
I never was attached to that great sect. 
Whose doctrine is, that each one should 

select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend. 
And all the rest, though fair and wise, 

commend 
To cold oblivion, though it is in the 

code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which tliose poor slaves with weary 

footsteps tread. 
Who travel to their home among tlie 

dead 
By the broad highway of the world, and 

so 
With one chained friend, perhaps a 

jealous foe, 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

True Love in tliis differs from gold 

and clay 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Love is like understanding, that grows 

bright, 
Gazing on many truths ; 'tis like thy 

light, 
Imagination ! which from earth and sky, 
And from the depths of human plian- 

tasy, 
As fi'om a tliousand prisms and mirrors, 

fills 
The Universe with glorious beams, and 

kills 
Error, the worm, with many a sun-like 

arrow 
Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow 
The heart that loves, the brain that 

contemplates. 
The life that wears, the spirit that 

creates 
One object, and one form, and builds 

thereby 
A sepulchre for its eternity. 



Mind from its object differs most in 

this : 
Evil from good ; misery from liappiness ; 
The baser from the nobler ; the impure 
And frail, from what is clear and must 

endure. 
If you divide suffering and dross, you 

maj' 
Dimhiish till it is consumed away ; 
If you divide pleasure and love and 

thought. 
Each part exceeds the whole ; and we 

know not 
How much, while any yet remains un- 
shared, 
Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow 

spared : 
This truth is that deep well, whence 

sages draw 
The unen vied light of hope ; the eternal 

law 
By which those live, to whom this world 

of life 
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 
Tills for the promise of a later birth 
The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 

There was a Being whom my spirit 

oft 
Met on its visioned wanderings, far 

aloft. 
In the clear golden prime of my youth's 

dawn. 
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn. 
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the 

caves 
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like 

waves • 
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremu- 
lous floor 
Paved her light steps; — on an imagined 

siiore, 
Under the gray beak of some promon- 
tory 
She met me, robed in such exceeding 

glory. 
That I beheld her not. In solitudes 
Her voice came to me through the 

whispering woods, 
And from the fountains, and the odors 

deep 
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring 

in their sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had lulled 

them there. 
Breathed but of herio tlie enamored air ; 
And from the breezes wliether low or 

loud, 
And from the rain of ever}' passing cloud. 



352 



BRITISH POETS 



And from the singing of the summer 

birtls, 
And from all sounds, all silence. In 

the words 
Of antique verse and high romance, — in 

form, 
Sound, color — in wliatever checks that 

Storm 
Wliich with the shattered present chokes 

the past ; 
And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a 

doom 
As glorious as a fiery mart.yrdom ; 
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth. — 

Then, f roui the caverns of my dreamy 

youth 
I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes 

of fire. 
And towards the loadstar of my one 

desire, 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 
Is as a dead leafs in tlie owlet light. 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting 

sphere 
A radiant death, a fieiy sepulchre, 
As if it were a lam]) of earthly flame.— 
But She, whom prayers or tears then 

could not tame. 
Passed, like a God throned on a winged 

planet, 
Whose burning jDlumes to tenfold swift- 
ness fan it. 
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade ; 
And as a man with might^y loss dismayed, 
I would have followed, though the 

grave between 
Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are 

imseen : 
When a voice said : — •' O Thou of hearts 

the weakest. 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou 

seekest." 
Then I — "Where?" the world's echo 

answered " where ! " 
And in that silence, and in my despair, 
I questioned every tongueless wind that 

flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
Whither ' twas fled, this soul out of jny 

soul ; 
And murmured names and spells which 

have control 
Over the sightless t}'rants of our fate ; 
But neither prayer nor verse could dis- 

si|)ate 
The night wliich closed on her ; nor 

vuicreate 



That world within this Chaos, mine and 

me, 
Of which she was tiie veiled Divinity, 
The world I say of thoughts that wor- 
shipped lier : 
And therefore I went forth, with hope 

and fear 
And every gentle passion sick to death, 
Feeding my course witii expectation's 

breath, 
Ijito the wintry forest of our life ; 
And struggling through its error with 

vain strife. 
And stumbling in my weakness and my 

haste. 
And half bewildered by new forms, I past 
Seeking among those untaught foresters 
If I could find one form resembling hers, 
In which she might have masked her- 

.self from me. 
There, — One, whose voice was venomed 

melody 
Sate by a well, vmder blue nightshade 

bowers ; 
The breath of her false mouth was like 

faint flowers. 
Her touch w-as as electric poison, — flame 
Out of her looks into mv vitals came. 
And from her living cheeks and bosom 

flew 
A killing air, which jiierced like honey- 
dew 
Into the core of my green heart, and lay 
Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray 
O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown 

l^rime 
With ruins of unseasonable time. 

In many mortal forms I rashly sought 
Tlie shadow of that idol of my tliought. 
And some were fair — but beauty dies 

awa.y : 
Others were wise — but honeyed words 

betray : 
And One was true — oii ! wliy not true 

to me ? 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not 

flee, 
I turned upon my thoughts, and stood 

at bay. 
Wounded and weak and panting ; the 

cold day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 
When, like a noonday dawn, there 

shone again 
Deliverance. One stood on my path 

who seemed 
As like the glorious shape which I had 

dreamed, 



SHELLEY 



353 



As is the Moou, whose changes ever run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
Tlie cold cliaste Moon, the Queen of 

Heaven's bright isles, 
Wlio makes all beautiful on which she 

smiles. 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy 

flame 
Which ever is transformed, yet still the 

same. 
And warms not but illumines. Young 

and fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere. 
She hid me, as the Moou may hide the 

night 
F^'om its own darkness, until all was 

bright 
Between the Heaven and Earth of my 

calm mind. 
And. as a cloud charioted by the wind, 
She led me to a cave in that wild place. 
And sate beside me, with her downward 

face 
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, 
And all my being became bright or dim 
As the Moon's image in a summer sea. 
According as she smiled or frowned on 

me ; 
And there I lay, within a chaste cold 

bed : 
Alas. I then was nor alive nor dead ; — 
For at her silver voice came Death and 

Life. 
Unmindful each of their accustomed 

strife, 
Masked like twin babes, a sister and a 

brother. 
The wandering hopes of one abandoned 

mother, 
And through the cavern without wings 

they flew. 
And cried " Away, he is not of our 

crew." 
I wept, and though it be a dream, I 

weep. 

What storms then shook the ocean of 

my sleep. 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and 

waning lips 
Then shrank as in the sickness of 

eclipse ; — 
And how my soul was as a lampless sea. 
And who was then its Tempest ; and 

when She, 
The Planet of that hour, was quenched, 

what frost 

23 



Crept o'er those waters, till from coast 

to coast 
The moving billows of my being fell 
Into a death of ice, immovable ; — 
And then — what earthquakes made it 

gape and split, 
The white Moon smiling all the while 

on it. 
These words conceal : — If not, each word 

would be 
The key of stanchless tears. Weep not 

for me ! 

At length, into the obscure Forest 

came 
The Vision I had sought through grief 

and shame. 
Athwart that wintry wilderness of 

thorns 
Flashed from her motion splendor like 

tlie Morn's 
And from her presence life was radiated 
Through the gray earth and branches 

bare and dead ; 
So that her way was paved, and roofed 

above 
With flowers as soft as thoughts of bud- 
ding love ; 
And music from her respiration spread 
Like light, — all other sounds were pene- 
trated 
By the small, still, sweet spirit of that 

sound, 
So that the savage winds hung mute 

around ; 
And odors warni and fresh fell from her 

hair, 
Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air : 
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun. 
When light is changed to love, this 

glorious One 
Floated into the cavern where I lay, 
And called my Spirit, and the dreaming 

clay 
Was lifted by the thing that dreamed 

below 
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's 

glow 
I stood, and felt the dawn of my long 

night 
Was penetrating me with living light : 
I knew it was the Vision veiled from me 
So many years — that it was Emily. 

Twin Spheres of light who rule tins 

passive Earth, 
This world of love, this me; and into 

birth [dart 

Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and 



354 



BRITISH POETS 



Magnetic might into its central heart ; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and 

guide 
By everlasting laws, eacli wind and tide 
To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy 

grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint 

bovvers 
The armies of the rainbow-winged 

showers ; 
And, as those married liglits, which 

from tlie towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wan- 
dering globe 
In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe ; 
And all their many-mingled influence 

blend, 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ; — 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate 

sway 
Govern my sphere of being, night and 

day ! 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed 

might : 
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
And, through the shadow of the 

seasons three, 
From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity. 
Light it into the Winter of tlie tomb, 
Where it may ripen to abrigliter bloom. 
Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce. 
Who drew the heart of this frail Uni- 
verse 
Towards tliine own ; till, wrecked in 

that convulsion. 
Alternating attraction and repulsion, 
Thine went astray and that was rent in 

twain ; 
Oh, float into our azui'e heaven again ! 
Be tliere love's folding-star at thy return ; 
The living Sun will feed thee from its 

urn [horn 

Of golden flre ; the Moon will veil her 
In thj"^ last smiles ; adoring Even and 

Morn 
Will worship thee with incense of calm 

breath 
And lights and shadows; as the star of 

Death 
And Birth is worsliipped by those 

sisters wild 
Called Hope and Fear — upon the heart 

are piled 
Their offerings, — of this sacrifice divine 
A world shall be the altar. 

Lady mine. 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the 

fading birth 



Which from its heart of hearts that plant 

puts forth 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny 

eyes. 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 

The day is come, and thou wilt fly 

with me. 
To wliatsoe'er of dull mortalitj' 
Is mine, remain a vestal sister still ; 
To the intense, the deep, the imperish- 
able, 
Not mine but me, henceforth be thou 

united 
Even as a bride, delighting and de- 
lighted. 
The hour is come : — the destined Star 

lias risen 
Which shall descend upon a vacant 

prison. 
The walls are high, the gates are strong, 

thick set 
The sentinels — but true love never yet 
Was thus constrained : it overleaps all 

fence : 
Like lightning, with invisible violence 
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's 

free breath. 
Which he who grasps can hold not ; 

liker Death, 
Who rides upon a thought, and makes 

his way 
Through temple, tower, and palace, and 

the array 
Of arms ; more strength has Love than 

he or they ; 
For it can burst his charnel, and make 

free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
The soul in dust and chaos. 

Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's 

brow ; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor. 
No keel has ever ploughed that path 

before ; 
The halcyons brood around the foamless 

isles ; [wiles ; 

The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its 
The merry mariners are bold and free : 
Say, ray heart's sister, wilt thou sail 

. with me ? 
Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 
Is a far Eden of the purjjle East ; 
And we between her wings will sit, 

while Night 
And Day, and storm, and Calm, pursue 

their flight. 



SHELLEY 



355 



Our ministers, along tlie boundless Sea, 
Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
It is an Isle under Ionian skies, 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
And, for the harbors are not safe and 

good, 
This land would have remained a soli- 
tude 
But for some pastoral people native 

tiiere. 
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden 

^ir 
Draw the last spirit of tlie age of gold. 
Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold. 
The blue ^gean girds this chosen home, 
With ever-changing sound and light and 

foam, 
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns 

hoar ; 
And all the winds wandering along the 

shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide : 
There are thick woods where sylvan 

forms abide ; 
And majiy a fountain, rivulet, and pond, 
As clear as elemental diamond. 
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond, 
The mossy tracks made by the goats 

and deer 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but 

once a year), 
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, 

and halls 
Built round with ivy, which the Avater- 

falls 
Illumining, with sound tiiat never fails 
Accompany the noonday nightingales; 
And all the place is peopled with sweet 

airs ; 
The light clear element which the isle 

wears 
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers. 
Which floats like mist laden wnth unseen 

showers 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint 

sleep ; 
And from the moss violets and jonquils 

peep. 
And dart their arrowy odor through the 

brain 
Till you might faint with that delicious 

pain. 
And every motion, odor, beam, and tone 
Willi that deep music is in unison : 
Which is a soul within tlie soul — they 

seem 
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. — 
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, 

and Sea, 



Cradled, and hung in clear tranquility ; 
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer, 
Washed by the soft blue Oceans of 

young air. 
It is a favored place. Famine or Blight, 
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never 

light 
Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vul- 
tures, tiiey 
Sail onward far upon their fatal way : 
The winged storms, chanting their 

tliuiuler-psalm 
To other lands, leave azure chasms of 

calm 
Over tills isle, or weep themselves in dew, 
From which its fields and woods ever 

renew 
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from 

the sky 
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and 

bright, 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight. 
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw 

aside. 
Till the isle's beaut}% like a naked bride 
Glowing at once with love and loveli- 
ness, 
Blushes and trembles at its own excess : 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle. 
An atom of th' Eternal, whose own 

smile 
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen 
O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and 

forests green. 
Filling their bare and void interstices. — 
But tiie chief marvel of the wilderness 
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or 

how 
None of the rustic island-people know ; 
'Tis not a tower of strength, though 

with its height 
It overtops the woods ; but, for delight, 
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere 

crime 
Had been invented, in the world's young 

prime, 
Reared it, a wonder of that simple time. 
An envy of the isles, a pleasure-liouse 
Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 
It scarce seems now a wreck of human 

art. 
But, as it were Titanic ; in the heart 
Of Earth having assumed its form, then 

grown 
Out of the mountains, from the living 

stone. 
Lifting itself in caverns light and high ; 



35^ 



BRITISH POETS 



For all tlie antique and learned imagery- 
Has been erased, and in tlie place of it 
Tl>e ivy and the wild-vine interknit 
The volumes of their many twining 

stems ; 
Parasite floweis illume with dewy gems 
The lampless halls, and when they fade, 

the sky^ 
Peeps through their winter-woof of 

tracery 
With Moonlight patches, or star atoms 

keen. 
Or fragments of the day's intense 

serene ; — 
Working mosaic on tlieir Parian floors. 
And, day and night, aloof, from the 

high towers 
And terraces, tlie Earth and Ocean seem 
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream 
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, 

and all that we 
Read in their smiles, and call reality. 

This isle and house are mine, and I 

have vowed 
Thee to be lady of the solitude. — 
And I have fitted up some chambers 

there 
Looking towards the golden Eastern air, 
And level with the living winds, which 

flow 
Like waves above the living waves 

below. — 
I have sent books and music there, and 

all 
Those instruments with which high 

spirits call 
The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present 

last 
In thouglits and joys which sleep, but 

cannot die, 
Folded within tlieir own eternity. 
Our simple life wants little, and true 

taste 
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to 

waste 
Tlie scene it would adorn, and therefore 

still. 
Nature with all her children, haunts the 

hill. 
Tlie ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, 

yet 
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls 

flit 
Round the evening tower, and the young 

stars glance 
Between the quick bats in their twilight 

dance ; 



The spotted deer bask in the fresh 

moonlight 
Before our gate, and the slow, silent 

night 
Is measured by the pants of their calm 

sleep. 
Be this our home in life, and when years 

heap 
Their withered hours, like leaves, on 

our decay, 
Let us become tlie overhanging day, 
The living soul of this Elysian isLe, 
Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk 

together. 
Under tlie roof of blue Ionian weather, 
And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
The mossy mountains, where the blue 

heavens bend 
With lightest winds, to touch their para- 
mour ; 
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore. 
Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea 
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 
Possessing and possest by all that is 
Within that calm circumference of bliss. 
And by each other, till to love and live 
Be one : — or, at the noontide hour, arrive 
Where some old cavern hoar seems yet 

to keep 
The moonlight of the expired night 

asleep, 
Through which the awakened day can 

never peep ; 
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 
Where secure sleep may kill thine 

innocent lights ; 
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the 

rain 
AVhose drops quench kisses till they 

burn again. 
And we will talk, until thought's melody 
Become too sweet for utterance, and it 

die 
In words, to live again in looks, which 

dart 
With thriling tone into the voiceless 

heart, 
Harmonising silence without a sound. 
Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms 

bound. 
And our veins beat together ; and our 

lips 
With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
The soul that burns between them, and 

the wells 
Which boil under our being's inmost 

cells. 
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 



SHELLEY 



357 



Confused in passion's golden purity, 
As mountain-springs undei' the morning 

Sun. 
We shall become the same, we shall be 

one 
Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore 

two ? 
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows 

and grew. 
Till like two meteors of expanding flame. 
Those splieres instinct with it become 

the same, 
Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever 

still 
Burning, yet ever inconsumable : 
In one another's substance finding foo<l, 
Like flames too pure and light and un- 

imbued 
To nourish their bright lives with baser 

prey. 
Which point to HeavSn and cannot pass 

away : 
One hope within two wills, one will 

beneath 
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one 

death. 
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
And one annihilation. Woe is me ! 
The winged words on which my soul 

wovild pierce 
Into the height of love's rare Universe, 
Are chains of lead around its flight of 

fire — 
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 



Weak Verses, go, kneel at your 

Sovereign's feet. 
And say : — " We are the mastei's of tliy 

slave ; 
What wouldest thou with us and ours 

and thine ? " 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's 

cave. 
All singing loud : " Love's very pain is 

sweet, 
But its reward is in the world divine 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the 

grave." 
So shall ye live when I am there. Then 

haste 
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest. 
And bid them love each other and be 

blest ; 
And leave the troop which errs, and 

which reproves. 
And come and be my guest, — for T am 

Love's. 1S21. 1831. 



TO NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of thy misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight. 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair tlie eyes of Day ; 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, . 

I sighed for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was 

gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet cliild Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmured like a noontide bge, 
Sliall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied. 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight. 

Come soon, soon ! 

• 1821. 1824. 

TIME 

Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are 
years. 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep 
woe 
Are brackish with the salt of human 
tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy 
ebb and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
And sick of prey, yet howling on tor 
more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable 
shore ; 



358 



BRITISH POETS 



Treacherous in calm, and terrible in 
storm, 
Who shall put fortli on thee, 
Unfathomable Sea ? 18:21. 1824. 

SONNET : POLITICAL GREATNESS 

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame. 
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in 

arms or arts. 
Shepherd those herds wlK)m tyrannj^ 

makes tame ; 
Verse echoes not one beating of their 

hearts. 
History is but the shadow of their 

shame, 
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant 

starts 
As to oblivion their blind millions 

fleet, 
Staining that Heaven with obscene 

imagery 
Of their own likeness. What are 

numbers knit 
B}"^ force or custom ? Man who man 

would be, 
Must rule the empire of himself ; in it 
Must be supreme, establishing his 

throne 
On vanquished will, quelling the an- 
archy 
Of hopes and fears, being liimself alone. 
ISJl. 1824. 

MUTABILITY 

THE_fl ower that smiles to-da v 

To-morrow dies ; 
AH that we wish to slay 

Tempts and thehflies. 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning tliat mocks the night, 

Brief even as bright. 

yirtuCjliow frail it is ! 

Fi'iendsliip how' rare ! 
Love, how if sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon tliey fall, 
Survive tlieir jo3\ and all 

Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright. 
Whilst flowers are gay. 

Whilst eyes tliat change ere night 
Make glad the day ; 

Whilst yet the calm liours creep. 

Dream thou — and from tliy sleep 
Then wake to wee]i. 

ISJl. 1824. 



A LAMENT 

O world ! O life ! O time ! 
On whose last steps I climb 
Trembling at that where I had stood 
before : 
When will return the glory of your 
prime ? 
No more — Oh, never more ! 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter 
hoar, 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with 
delight 
No more — Oh, never more ! 

1821. 1824. 

TO 



Music, wliensoft ^ices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken, 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 

Are heaped for tine beloved's bed ; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art 

gone 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

1821. 1824. 

ADONAIS 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS, 
AUTHOR OP ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETC, 

'AoTT/p nplv IJ.EV tTiafiTTEq kvl H^uoimv 'EcJof 
T^vv de Oaviiv AdfiwEiq "'EoKepoc; kv (pftifiivoig. 

Plato. 

I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead ! 

Oh weep for Adonais! tliough our tears 

Thaw not the frost which binds so dear 

a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all 

years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 

compeers, 
And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : 

" With me 
Died Adonais ; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall 

be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ! " 

Where wert thou mighty Mother, when 

he lay. 
When tliy Sr>n lay, pierced by the shaft 

whicli flies 



SHELLEY 



359 



In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamored 

breath. 
Rekindled all the fading melodies 
With which, like flowers that mock 

the corse beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk 

of death. 

Oh weep for Adonais — lie is dead ! 

Wake, melanclioly Motlier, wake and 
weep ! 

Yet wherefore ? Quench within their 
burning bed 

Thy fiery tears, and let thy lov'd heart 
keep. 

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 
sleep ; 

For he is gone, wliere all things wise 
and fair 

Descend; — oh, dream not that the am- 
orous Deep 

Will yet restore him to tlie vital air ; 

Death feeds on his mute voice, and 
laughs at our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again 
Lament anew-, Urania ! — He died. 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his 

country's pride. 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. 
Trampled and mocked with many a 

loatlied rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified. 
Into the gulf of deatli ; but his clear 

Sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among 

the sons of liglit. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to 

climb ; 
And happier they their happiness who 

knew, 
Whose tapers yet burn through that 

niglit Oi time 
In which suns perished ; others moi'e 

sublime. 
Struck by the envious wrath of man 

or God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 

prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny 

road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to 

Fame's serene abode. 



But now, thy youngest, dearest one 

has perished. 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who 

grew, 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 

cherished. 
And fed with true love tears, instead of 

dew ; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Thy extreine hope, the loveliest and 

the last, 
The bloom, whose petals nipt before 

they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is 

waste ; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is over- 
past. 

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and 

decay. 
He came ; and bought, with price of 

purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come 

away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 

day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep lie lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely lie takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all 

ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never 

more ! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads 

apace, 
The shadow of white Death, and at the 

door 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and 

awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 

deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal 

curtain draw. 

Oh weep for Adonais ! — The quick 

Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of thought. 
Who were his flocks, whom near the 

living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 

taught 
The love which was its music, wander 

not, — 



360 



BRITISH POETS 



Wander no more, from kindling brain to 

brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung ; 

and mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, wliere, after their 

sweet pain. 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find 

a home again. 

And one with trembling hands clasps 

his cold head. 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, 

and cries ; 
" Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 

dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint 

eyes, 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 

lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened from 

his brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruined Pai'adise ! 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no 

stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had out- 
wept its rain. 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs as if embalming 

them ; 
Another dipt her profuse locks, and 

threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls 

begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would 

break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to 

stem 
A greater loss with one which was more 

weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen 

cheek. 

Another Splendor on his mouth alit. 

That mouth, wiience it was wont to draw 
the breath 

Which gave it strength to pierce the 
guarded wit. 

And pass into the panting heart be- 
neath 

With lightning and with music : the 
damp death 

Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 

And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 

Of moonlight vapor, which the cold 
night clips. 

It flushed tlu'ough liis pale limbs, and 
passed to its eclipse. 



And others came . . . Desires and 
Adorations, 

Winged Persuasions and veiled Des- 
tinies, 

Splendors and Glooms, and glimmering 
Incarnations 

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan- 
tasies ; 

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by 
the gleam 

Of lier own dying smile instead of eyes. 

Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp 
might seem 

Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
stream. 

All he had loved, and moulded into 

thought. 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and 

sweet sound. 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watchtower, and her hair 

unbound. 
Wet with the tears which should adorn 

tlie ground, 
Dimmed tlie aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 
And tlie wild winds flew round, sobbing 

in their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun- 
tains, 
And feeds her grief with his remembered 

lay. 
And will no more reply to winds or 

fountains. 
Or amorous birds perched on the young 

green spray, 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing 

day ; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more 

dear 
Than those for whose disdain she pined 

away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the 

woodmen hear. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and 

she threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 

were. 
Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is 

flown 
For whom should she have waked the 

sullen year ? 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 



SHELLEY 



-.61 



• Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonais : wan they stand and 

sere 
Amid tlie faint companions of their 

youth, 
With dew all turned to tears ; odor, to 

sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 
Mourns not her mate with such melodi- 
ous pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could 

scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 

domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth 

complain, 
Soaring and screaming round her empty 

nest. 
As Albion wails for thee ; the curse of 

Cain 
Light on his head wlio pierced thy iniao- 

cent breast 
And scared the angel soul that was its 

earthly guest ! 

Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and 

gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving 

year ; 
The airs and streams renew their joj^ous 

tone : 
The ants, the bees, the swallows re- 
appear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 

Seasons' bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every 

brake. 
And build tlieir mossy homes in field and 

brere ; 
And the green lizard, and the golden 

snake, 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their 

trance awake. 

Tlirough wood and stream and field and 

hill and Ocean 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart 

has burst 
As it has ever done, with change and 

motion, 
■ From the great morning of the world 

when first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream im- 
mersed 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 

light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred 

thirst ; 



Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's 

delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed 

might. 

The leprous corpse touched by this spirit 

tender 
Exiiales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when 

splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 

death 
And mock the merry worm that wakes 

beneath ; 
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone 

which knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the 

sheath 
By siglitless lightning ? — th' intense 

atom glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most 

cold repose. 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we ? of 

what scene 
The actors or spectators? Gi'eat and 

mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what 

life must borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields are 

green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge 

the morrow, 
Month follow month with woe, and year 

wake year to sorrow. 

He will awake no more, oh, nevermore ! 
"Wake tliou," cried Misery, "child- 
less Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy 

heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears 

and sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watched 

Urania's eyes. 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's 

song 
Had held in holy silence, cried : 

" Arise ! " 
Swift as a Tliought by the snake Memory 

stung, . 
From her ambrosial rest the fading 

Splendor sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
springs 



362 



BRITISH POETS 



Out of the East, and follows wild and 
drear 

The golden Day, which, on eternal 
wings. 

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 

Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 
and fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 

So saddened round her like an atmo- 
sphere 

Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her 
way 

Even to the mournful place where 
Adonais lay. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 

Through camj)s and cities rough with 
stone, and steel. 

And human hearts, which to her airy 
tread 

Yielding not, wounded the invisible 

Palms of her tender feet where'er they 
fell: 

And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 
sharp than they 

Rent tlie soft Form they never could 
re])el. 

Whose sacred blood, like the young 
tears of May, 

Paved with eternal flowers that unde- 
serving way. 

In the death chamber for a moment 

Death 
Shamed by the pi-esence of that living 

Might 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her 

dear delight. 
" Leave me not wild and drear and 

comfortless. 
As silent liglitning leaves the starless 

night ! 
Leave me not!" cried Urania: lier 

distress 
Rovised Death : Death rose and smiled, 

and met her vain caress. 

"Stay yet awhile! speak to me once 

again ; 
Kiss me. so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And in my heartless breast and bvirning 

brain . 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 

else survive. 
With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 



All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot 
thence depart ! 

'■ O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 

of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though 

mighty heai't 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was 

then 
Wisdom tlie mirrored shield, or scorn 

the spear ? 
Or liadst thou waited the full cycle, 

wlien 
Tliy spirit sliould have filled its crescent 

s])here, 
Tiie monsters of life's waste had fled 

from thee like deer. 

" The herded wolves, bold only to 

pursue ; 
The obscene I'avens, clamorous o'er the 

d(>ad ; 
The vultures to the conqueror's banner 

true 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed. 
And whose wnngs rain contagion ; — how 

they fled, 
When like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
The I'j'thian of tlie age one arrow sped 
And smiled !— The spoilers tempt no 

second blow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 

them lying low. 

" The sun comes forth, and many rep- 
tiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn, 
And the immortal stars awake again : 
So is it in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, 

and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or 

shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's 
awful night." 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain 

shepherds came, 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 

rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent. 
An early l.>ut enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 

song 



SHELLEY 



3^3 



In soirovv ; from liei" wilds lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 
And love taught grief to fall like music 
from his tongue. 

Midst others of less note, came one 

frail Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I 

guess. 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Actaeon-like, and now he filed astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wil- 
derness, 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged 

way, 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
and their prey. 

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can 

scarce iiplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow ; — even whilst we 

speak 
Is it not broken ? On the withering 

flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly : on a 

cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while 

the heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over- 
blown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and 

blue ; 
And a light spear topped with a cypress 

cone, 
Eound whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses 

grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday 

dew, 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; 

of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the 

hunter's dart. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled tlirough their tears ; well knew 

that gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown land. 
He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania 

scanned 



The Stranger's mien, and murmvired: 

" Who art thou? " 
He answered not, but with a sudden 

liand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined 

brow. 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's — oh, 

that it should be so ! 

What softer voice is hushed over the 

dead? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 

thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white 

deathbed. 
In mockery of monumental stone. 
The heavy heart heaving without a 

moan ? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the 

departed one ; 
Let me not vex, with inharmonious 

sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted 

sacriiice. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could 

crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of 

woe ? 
The nameless worm would now- itself 

disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 

wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast 

alone, 
Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whose master's handis cold, whose silver 

lyre unstrung. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy 

fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from 

me, 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered 

name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 

flow : 
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling 

to thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 

brow. 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou 

shalt — as now.i 

1 See the note ou page 354. 



364 



BRITISH POETS 



Nor let us weep tliat our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion kites that scream 

below ; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring 

dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 

now. — 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit 

shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence 

it came. 
A portion of the Eternal, which must 

glow 
Through time and change, unquench- 

ably the same, 
Wliilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 

hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth 

not sleep 
He hath awakened from the dream of 

life— 
'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
And in mad trance, strike with our 

spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 
Like corpses in a cliarnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms with- 
in our living clay. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our 
night ; 

Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 

And tliat unrest which men miscall de- 
light, 

Can touch liim not and torture not again ; 

From the contagion of the world's slow 
stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
in vain ; 

Nor, when tlie spirit's self has ceased to 
burn. 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented 
urn. 

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, 

not he ; 
Mourn not for Adonais, — Thou young 

Dawn [thee 

Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, 

and thoU Air 
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf 

hadst thrown 



O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it 

bare 
Even to tlie joyous stars which smile on 

its despair ! 

He is made one with Nature : there is 

heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet 

bird ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and 

stone, 
Spi'eading itself where'er that Power 

may move 
Which lias withdrawn his being to its 

own ; 
Which wields the world with never 

wearied love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 

above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he 

doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 

stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, 

compelling there 
All new successions to the forms they 

wear ; 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that 

checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may 

bear ; 
And bursting in its beaut}'- and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the 

Heaven's light. 

Tlie splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished 

not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height 

thej^ climb 
And deatli is a low mist which cannot 

blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty 

thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 

there 
And move like winds of light on dark 

and stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
Rose from their thrones, built beyond 

mortal tliought. 
Far in th© Unapparent. Chatterton 



SHELLEY 



365 



Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he 

fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit witliout spot, 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death 

approved : 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing 

reproved. 

And many more, whose names on Eartli 

are dark 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot 

die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
" Thou art become as one of us," they 

cry, 
" It was for thee yon kingless spheie 

has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. 
Assume tliy winged throne, thou Vesper 

of our throng ! " 

Who mourns for Adonais ? Oh come 

forth 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and 

him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the 

pendulous Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 

might 
Satiate the void circumference : then 

shrink 
Even to a point within our day and 

night ; 
And keep thy heart light lest it make 

thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured 

thee to the brink. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre 
Oh ! not of him, but of our joy : ' tis 

nought 
That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 

wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow 

not 
Glory from those who made the world 

their prey ; 
And he is gathered to the kings of 

thought 
Who waged contention with their time's 

decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pa.ss 

away. 



Go thou to Rome. — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
And where its wrecks like shattered 

mountains rise, ' 

And flowering weeds, and fragrant 

copses dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the 

dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the 

gra,ss is spread. 

And gray walls moulder round, on which 

dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- 
lime. 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble ; and 

beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their 

camp of death 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex- 
tinguished breath. 

Here pause : tlie.se graves are all too 
young as yet 

To have outgrown the sorrow which 
consigned 

Its charge to each ; and if the .seal is set. 

Here, on one fountain of a mourning 
mind, 

Break it not thou ! too surely .shalt thou 
find [iiome. 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest 

Of tears and gall. From the world's 
bitter wind 

Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 

What Adonais is, why fear we to be- 
come ? 

The One remains, the many change and 

pass ; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth'.s 

shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. 

—Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that wiiich 

thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure 

sky, [are weak 

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, 
The glory they transfuse with fitting 

truth to speak. 



366 



BRITISH POETS 



Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 

my Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all 

tilings here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now 

depart ! 
A light is past from the revolving year, 
And man, and woman ; and what still 

is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 

wither. 
The soft sk}"^ smiles, — the low wind 

whispers near ; 
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can 

join together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the 

Univei"se, 
That Beauty in which all things work 

and move. 
That Benediction which the eclipsing 

Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustain- 
ing Love 
Which through the web of being blindly 

wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and 

sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all tliirst ; now beams 

on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold 

mortality. 

The breath whose miglit I liave invoked 

in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is 

driven. 
Far from the shore, far from tlie trem- 
bling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest 

given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are 

riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil 

of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the 

Eternal are. 1S21. 1821. 

LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAY 
FLY NOT 

Life may change, but it may fly not ; 
Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 
Truth be veiled, but still it burnetii ; 
Love repulsed, — but it returneth I 



Yet were life a charnel where 
Hope lay coffined with Despair ; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
Love were lust — If Liberty 



Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight. 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear, 
Love its power to give and bear. 

From Hellas. ISfn. 1822. 



WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLL- 
ING EVER 

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 

From creation to decay. 
Like the bubbles on a river 
Sparkling, bursting, borne away. 
But they are still immortal 
Who, through birth's orient portal 
And death's dark chasm hvxrrying to and 
fro. 
Clothe their unceasing flight 
In the brief dust and light 
Gathered around their chariots as they 
go; 
New shapes they still may weave, 
New gods, new laws receive. 
Bright or dim are they as the robes thej"^ 
last 
On Death's bare ribs lind cast. 

A power from the unknown God, 
A Promethean com[ueror canie ; 
Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapor dim 
Which the orient planet animates with 
light ; 
Hell, Sin, and Slavery came. 
Like bloodhounds mild and tame. 
Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken 
flight ; 
The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set : 
While blazoned as on heaven's immortal 
noon 
The cross leads generations on. 

Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 

From one wliose dreams are Paradise 
Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to 
weep, 
And day peers forth with her blank 

eyes ; 
So fleet, so faint, so fair. 
The Powers of eartii and air 
Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem : 



SHELLEY 



567 



Apollo, Pun, and Love, 
And even Olympian Jove 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared 
on them ; 
Our hills and seas and streams 
Dispeopled of their dreams, 
Their waters turned to blood, their dew 
to tears, 
Wailed for the golden years. 

From Hellas. 1821. 1832. 

SONGS FROM HELLAS 

Darkness has dawned in the East 

On the noon of time : 
The deatli-birds descend to their feast, 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand, 
And follow Love's folding star 

To tlie Evening land ! 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn, 
With the sunset's tire : 
The vpeak day is dead. 

But the night is not born ; 
And, like loveliness panting with wild 
desire [light. 

While it trembles with fear and de- 
Hespei'us flies from awakening night. 
And pants in its beauty and speed with 
light 
Fast flashing, soft, and bright. 
Thou beacon of love ! tliou lan)p of the 
free ! 
Guide us far, far away, 
To climes where now veiled by the 
ai'dor of day 
Thou art hidden 
From waves on which weary noon 
Faints in her summer swoon, 
. Between Kingless continents sinless 
as Eden, [lably 

Around mountains and islands invio- 
Prankt on the sapjDhire sea. 

Through the sunset of hope, 
Like the shapes of a <Iream, 
What Paradise islands of glory 
gleam ! 
Beneath Heaven's cope. 
Their shadows more clear float by — 
The sound of their oceans, the light 

of their sky, 
The music and fragrance their soli- 
tudes breathe 
Burst, like morning on dream, or like 
Heaven on death 



Through the walls of our prison : 
And Greece, which was dead, is arisen ! 

1S21. 182.2. 

THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE BEGINS 
ANEW 

The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn : 
Heaven smiles, and faitiis and empires 

gleam. 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far ; 
A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Against the morning star. 
Where fairer Tempes blootn, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 

A loftier Argo cleaves the main. 

Fraught with a later prize ; 
Another Orpheus sings ag;iin, 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for his native shore. 

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be ! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon tiie free : 

Although a subtler Spliinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 

Another Athens shall arise, 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies. 

The splendor of its prime ; 
And leave, if nought so bright may live, 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose, 
Than many unsubdued : ^ 

1 Saturn and Love were among the deities of a 
real or imaginary state of innocence and happi- 
ness. All those ivhofell, or the Gods of Greece, 
Asia, and Egypt ; the One who rose, or Jesus 
Christ, at whose appearance the idols of the 
Pagan World were ainercetl of their worship ; 
and the many unsubdued, or tlie monstrous ob- 
jects of the idolatry of China. India, the Antarc- 
tic islands, and the native tribes of America, 
certainly have reigned over the understandings 
of men in conjunction or in succession, during 
periods in which all we know of evil has been in 
a state of portentous, anil, until the revival nf 
learning and the arts, perpetually increasing 
activity. (From ShcUey's Note.) 



368 



BRITISH POETS 



Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers. 
But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

Oil, oease ! must liate and death return ? 

Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
Tlie world is weary of the past, 
Oh, might it die or rest at last ! 

Final Chorus from Hellas. 

TO-MORROW 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 
When young and old and strong and 
weak. 
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 
In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 
We find the thing we fled — To-day. 

1821. 1824. 

TO 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from anotiier. 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not. 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 
1S21. 1824. 

WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE 

Ariel, to Miranda. — Take 

This slave of Music, for tlie sake 

Of him who is the slave of thee. 

And teach it all tlie harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou, 

Make the delighted spirit glow. 

Till joy denies itself again, 

And, too intense, is turned to pain ; 

For by, permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken ; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who, 



From life to life, must still pursue 

Your happiness ;— for thus alone 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prospero's enchanted cell, 

As the mighty verses tell. 

To the throne of Naples, lie 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon, 

In her interlunar swoon, 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel. 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth, 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity. 

Many changes have been run. 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has tracked your steps, and served 

3'^our will ; 
Now, in humbler, happier lot, 
This is all remembei'ed not ; 
And now, alas ! the jjoor sprite is 
Imprisoned, for some fault of his. 
In a body like a grave ; — 
From you lie only dares to crave. 
For his service and his sorrow, 
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought, 
To echo all harmonious thought. 
Felled a tree, while on the steep 
The woods were in their winter sleep, 
Rocked in that repose divine 
On tiie wind-swept Apennine ; 
And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 
And some of Spring approaching fast, 
And some of April buds and showers, 
And some of songs in July bowers. 
And all of love ; and so this tree, — 
Oh that such our death may be ! — 
Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 
To live in happier form again : 
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 

star, 
The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 
And taught it justly to reply. 
To all who question skilfully, 
In language gentle as thine own ; 
Whispering in enamored tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
For it had learnt all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains. 
And the many-voiced fountains ; 
The clearest echoes of the hills, 



SHELLEY 



3^9 



The softest notes of falling rills, 
The melodies of birds and bees, 
Tlie murmuring of summer seas. 
And pattering i-ain, and breathing dew 
And airs of evening ; and it knew 
Tliat seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats tlu-ough boundless day. 
Our world enkindles on its way — 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it ; 
It talks according to tlie wit 
Of its companions ; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before, 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day : 
But sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of jierfect skill, 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved Jane alone. 

1822. 1832-1833. 

LINES : "WHEN THE LAMP IS 
SHATTERED " 

When the lamp is shattered 
The light in the dust lies dead — 

When the cloud is scattered 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken. 
Sweet tones are remembered not ; 

When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendor 
Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute : — 

No song but sad dirges. 
Like the wind throvigh a ruined cell. 

Or tiie mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

24 



When hearts have once mingled 
Love first leaves the well-built nest. 

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed. 

O Love ! who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here. 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your 
bier ? 

Its passions will rock thee 
As the storms rock the ravens on high : 

Bright reason will mock thee, 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave tiiee naked to laughter, 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
1822. 1824. 

SONG FROM CHARLES THE FIRST 

A WIDOW bird sate moui'ning for her 
love 

Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above. 

The freezing stream below. 

There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 
No flower upon the ground, 

And little motion in the air 
Except the mill-wheel's sound. 

1822. 1824. 

A DIRGE 

Rough wind, that meanest loud 

Grief too sad for song ; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long ; 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain. 
Bare woods, whose branches strain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, 

Wail, for the world's wrong ! 

1822. 1824. 



> 



KEATS 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

* * Complete Works, edited by H. Buxton Forman, 4 volumes (the 
standard edition). Complete Poetical Works, together with the Letters, 
Cambridge edition, 1 volume. Poetical Works, Globe edition, 1 volume. 
Aldine Poets, 1 volume. Golden Treasury Series (edited by Palgrave), 
1 volume. 

Biography 

* MiLNEs (R. M.) (Lord Houghton), Life, Letters and Literary Remains, 
1st edition, 1848 ; 2nd, revised, edition, 1867. * Colvix (Sidney), Keats 
(English Men of Letters Series), 1887. * Rossetti (W. M.), Keats (Great 
Writers Series), 1887. Gothein (M.), John Keats' Leben und Werke, 
1897. 

Remfniscences and Early Criticism 

Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries. Hunt 
(Leigh), Autobiography. Hunt (Leigh), Review of La Belle Dame sans 
Merci, in The Indicator, May 10, 1890 ; Review of the Poems of 1820, in 
The Indicator of August 2 and 9, 1820. (Given in Forman's edition of 
Keats, Vol. II). Hunt (Leigh), Imagination and Fancy, 1844. VGifford 
(William), Review of Endymion, in the Quarterly Review, No. 37, 1818. 
Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review, No. 67, Art. 10, August, 
1820 : Keats' Poetry. Mitford (M. L.), Recollections of a Literary Life. 
Clarke (Charles and Mary Cowden), Recollections of Writers. De 
QuiNCEY, Works, Masson's edition. Vol. XL Haydon (B. R.), Correspon- 
dence and Table-Talk. — See also Medwin's Life of Shelley, Shelley Memo- 
rials by Lady Shelley, Taylor's Life of B. R. Haydon, and Medwin's 
Conversations of Lord Byron. 

Later Criticism 

* Arnold (M.), Essays, Vol. II. Dilke (C. W.), The Papers of a Critic. 
DowDEN (Edward), Studies in Literature: Transcendental Movement and 
Literature. Gosse (E.), Critical Kit-kats. * Lang (Andi^ew), Letters on 

37° 



I 



KEATS 371 

Literature. * Lowell, Prose Works, Vol. I : Keats. Mabie (H. W.), 
Essays in Literary Interpretation : John Keats, Poet and Man. Masson 
(David), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Owex (F. M.), 
Keats, a study. Phillips (S.), Essays from the Times, Vol. I. Robert- 
son (J. M.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. Kossetti (W. M.), 
Lives of Famous Poets. Shelley (Henry C), Keats and his Circle. 

* Swinburne (A. C), Miscellanies. Texte (Joseph), Etudes de Littera- 
ture europeenne : Keats et le Neo-Hellenisme dans la Poesie anglaise. 

* WooDBERRY (G. E.), Studics in Letters and Life. 

Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Caine (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criti- 
cism. Carr (J. C.), Essays on Art. Courthope (W. G.), Liberal Move- 
ment in English Literature. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern Eng- 
lish. De Vere (A.), Essays, chiefly on Poetry. Devey (J.), Comparative 
Estimate of Modern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. 
Hallard (J. H.), Gallica : Poetry of Keats. Hudson (W. H.), Studies in 
Interpretation : Keats, Clough, Arnold. Mixto (William), The Georgian 
Era. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese (on Colvin's Biography). Noel 
(R.), Essays on Poetry and Poets. Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English 
Literature. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Tuc- 
KERMAN (H. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Willis (N. P.), Pencillings by 
the Way. 

Tributes in Verse 

* * Shelley, Adonais. * Shelley, Fragment on Keats' Epitaph. Hunt 
(Leigli) Foliage, or Poems Original and Translated : To John Keats ; On 
Receiving a Crown of Ivy from the Same ; On the Same ; * To the Grass- 
hopper and the Cricket. (Four Sonnets to Keats. Given also in For- 
man's edition of Keats, Vol. I). * Rossetti, Five English Poets : John 
Keats. * Gilder (R. W.), Poems. Longfellow, Keats, a Sonnet. 
Lowell, Poems : Sonnet to the Spirit of Keats. Moore (G. L.), Keats, a 
Sonnet. Tabb (John B.), Keats, a Sonnet. Payn (James), Stories from 
Boccaccio, and other Poems : Sonnet to John Keats. Scott (W. B.), 
Poems : Sonnet on the Inscrii^tion, Keats' Tombstone ; Ode to the Memory 
of John Keats. * Spingarn (J. E.), in Columbia Verse 1892-97: Keats. 

* Browning (E. B.), in Aurora Leigh, Book T. * Browning (R.), 
Popularity, 

Bibliography 

Providence Public Library, Reading List; Monthly Bulletin, 1895, No. 
11. Anderson (J. P.), Appendix to Rossetti's Life of Keats. 



KEATS 



IMITATION OF SPENSEEi 

Now Morning from her orient chamber 

came, 
And her iirst footsteps touch'd a verdant 

hill ; 
Crowning its lawny cresj^ with amber 

flame, 
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down 

distill, 
And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill. 
Which round its marge reflected woven 

bowers. 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never 

lowers. 

There the king-fisher saw his plumage 
bright 

Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below ; 

Whose silken fins, and golden scales 
light 

Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby 
glow : 

There saw the swan his neck of arched 
snow, 

And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 

Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did 
show 

Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 

And on his back a fay reclined volup- 
tuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed 

been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
For sure so fair a place was never seen, 
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : 

^ " It was the FaeHe Queene that awakened 
his genius. In Spenser's fairy-land he was en- 
elianted, breathed in a new world, and became 
another being ; till, enamored of the stanza, he 
attempted to imitate it, and succeeded. . . . 
This, his earliest attempt, the ' Imitation of 
Spenser', is in his first volume of poems." 
(Quoted by Colvin from the Houghton MSS.) 



It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on 

high. 
Through clouds of fleecy white, lauglis 

the cerulean sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy 

tide. 
Which, as it were in gentle amitj', 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
As if to glean tlie ruddy tears, it tried, 
Which fell profusely from tlie rose-tree 

stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
In strife to throw upon tlie shore a gem 
Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem. 
1813 or IS 14. 1817.1 

TO SOLITUDE 

O SOLITUDE ! if I must with thee dwell. 
Let it not be among the jumbled iieap 
Of murky buildings ; climb with me the 

steep, — 
Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell 
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd where the 

deer's swift leap 
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove 

■ bell. 
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes 

with thee, 
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent 

mind, 
Whose words are images of thoughts 

refin'd. 
Is my soul's jileasure ; and it sure must be 
Almost the highest bliss of liuman-kind. 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits 

flee. • ?1S15. May 5, 1816.2 

' The dates for Keats' poems are made up from 
Sidney CiUvin's careful study of the order of 
composition of the poems, in his Life of Keats, 
and from H. Buxton Forman's excellent nfites in 
his edition of Keats' Works. 

- In Leigh Hunt's Examiner. Probably the 
first Hues of Keats ever printed. 



372 



KEATS 



zn 



HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE 
LAPSES OF TIME 

How many bards gild tlie lapses of time! 
A few of them liave ever been the food 
Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, 
These will in throngs before my mind 

intrude : 
But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
Do they occasion : 'tis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening 

store ; 
The songs of birds— the whisp'ring of the 

leaves — 
The voice of watei's — the great bell that 

heaves 
AVith solemn sound, — and thousand 

others more, 
That distance of recognizance bereaves, 
Make pleasing music, and not wild vip- 

roar. ?1S16. 1817. 

KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHIS- 
PERING HERE AND THERE 

Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here 

and there 
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; 
The stars look very cold about the sky. 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, 
Or of those silver lamps that burn on 

high. 
Or of the distance frona home's pleasant 

lair : 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 
That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloojient distress, 
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown 'd; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, 
And faithful Petrarch gloriously 

crown'd. 91816. 1817. 

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN 
CITY PENT 

To one vvlio has been long in citv pent 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a 

prayer 
Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
Who is more happj, when, with lie;irt"s 

content. 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 



And gentle tale of love and languishment? 
Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright 

career. 
He mourns that day so soon has glided 

by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear etlier silently. 
June, 1S16. 1817. 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of 

gold. 
And many gqodly states and kingdoms 

seen ; 
Round many western islands have I 

been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his 

demesne ; 
Yet did I never bi-eathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 

and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the 

skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle 

eyes 
He star'il at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at eacli other with a wild sur- 
mise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

ISIO. 1817. 

GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH 
ARE SOJOURNING 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourn- 
ing ; 

He of the cloud, tlie cataract, the lake. 

Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide 
awake. 

Catches his freshness from Archangel's 
wing ; 

He of tlie^-ose, the violet, the spring. 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's 
sake : 

And lo ! — whose steadfastness would 
never take 

A meaner sound than Raphael's whis- 
pering. 

And other spirits there are standing 
apart 

Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 



374 



BRITISH POETS 



These, these will give the world another 

heart 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
Of mighty workings in the human mart ? 
Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 
November, 1S16. 1817. 

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 
When all the birds are faint with the 

hot sun , 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will 

run 
From hedge to hedge about the new- 
mown mead ; 
That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the 

lead 
In summer luxuiy, — he has never done 
With his deliglits ; for when tired out 

with fun 
He rests at ease beneath some jjleasant 

weed. 
The poetry of earth is ceasing n<^ver : 
On a lone winter evening, wlien tlie 

frost 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove 

there shrills 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing 

ever, 
And seems to one in drowsiness half 

lost. 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy 

hills. December 30, 1816. 1817. 

SLEEP AND POETRY 

" As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
" Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
" Rest I ne wist, for there n"as erthly wight 
" [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese 
" Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese." 

Chaucer. 



What is more gentle than a wind in 

summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty 

hummer 
That stays one moment in an open 

flower, 
And buzzes cheerily from bower to 

bower ? 
What is more tranquil than a musk- 
rose blowing 
In a green island, far from all men's 

knowing ? 
More healthful than the leafiness of 

dales ? 



More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 

More serene than Cordelia's counte- 
nance ? 

More full of visions than a high ro- 
mance ? 

What, but thee. Sleep? Soft closer of 
our eyes ! 

Low nuirmurer of tender lullabies ! 

Light hoverer around our happy pil- 
lows ! 

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping 
willows ! 

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses 1 

Most happy listener ! when the morning 
blesses 

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful 
eyes 

That glance so brightly at the new sun- 
rise. 

But \y\vAt is higher bevond thought than 
thee ? 

Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ? 

More strange, more beautiful, more 
smooth, more regal. 

Than wings of swans, than doves, than 
dim-seen eagle ? 

What is it? And to what shall I com- 
pare it ? 

It has a glory, and nought else can 
share it : 

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and 
holy. 

Chasing away all worldliness and folly ; 

Coming sometimes like fearful claps of 
thunder, 

Or tlie low rumblings earth's regions 
under ; 

And sometimes like a gentle whispering 

Of all the secrets of some wondrous 
thing . 

That breathes about us in the vacant 
air : 

So that we look around with prying 
stare, 

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial 
limning. 

And catch soft floatings fi-om a faint- 
heard hymning ; 

To see the laurel wreath, on high sus- 
pended. 

That is to crown our name when life is 
ended. 

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice. 
And from the heart up-springs, rejoice 1 

rejoice ! 
Sounds which will reach the Framer of 

all things. 
And die away in ardent mutterings. 



KEATS 



37: 



No one who once the glorious sun has 

seen 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom 

clean 
For his great Maker's presence, but must 

know 
What 'tis I mean, and feel his being 

glow : 
Tlierefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
By telling what he sees from native 

merit. 

O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven — Should I rather 

kneel 
Upon some mountain-top until I feel 
A glowing splendor round about me 

hung. 
And eclio back the voice of thine own 

tongue ? 
O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my ])en 
That am not yet a glorious denizen 
Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent 

\n-dyei\ 
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
Smoothed for intoxication by the breatli 
Of flowering baj^s, that I may die a 

death 
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 
The morning sun-beams to the great 

Apollo 
Like a fresh sacrifice ; or if T axn bear 
The o'erwlielming sweets, 'twill bring 

me to the fair 
Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
Will be elysium — an eternal l)ook 
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
About the leaves, and flowers — about 

the playing 
Of njMuphs in woods, and fountains ; and 

the shade 
Keeping a silence round a sleeping 

maid 
And many a verse from so strange in- 
fluence 
That we must ever wonder how, and 

whence 
It came. Also imaginings will hover 
Round my fireside, and haply there dis- 
cover 
Vistas of solemn beauty, wliere I'd 

wander 
In happy silence, like the clear meander 
Tlirough its lone vales ; and where I 

found a spot 
Of awfuller sliade, or an enchanted grot, 
Or a green hill o'erspi'ead with chequered 

dress 



Of flowers, and fearful from its love- 
liness, 

Write on my tablets all that was per- 
mitted , 

All tliat was for our human senses fitted. 

Tlien the events of this wide world I'd 
seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze 

Till at its slioulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 

Stop and consider ! life is but a day : 
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's 

sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous 

steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
Life is tlie rose's hope while yet unblown; 
Tiie reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer an- ; 
A laughing school-bo}', without grief or 

care 
Riding the springy brandies of an elm. 

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
Myself in poesy : so I may do tlie deed 
That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
Then I will pass tlie countries that I see 
In long perspective, and continually 
Taste their pure fountains. First the 

realm I'll pass 
Of Flora, and old Pan ; sleep in the grass, 
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 
And choose each pleasure that my fancy 

sees ; 
Catch tlie white-handed nymphs in 

shady places. 
To woo sweet kisses from averted 

faces, — 
Play with their fingers, touch their 

shoulders white 
Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 
As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 
A lovely tale of human life we'll read. 
And one will teach a tame dove how it 

best 
May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; 
Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 
Will set a green robe floating round her 

head. 
And still will dance with ever varied 

ease. 
Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 
Another will entice me on, and on 
Through almond blossoms and rich cin- 
namon ; 
Till in the bosom of a leafy world 



376 



BRITISH POETS 



We rest in silence, like two gems up- 

curl'd 
In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid tliese joys farewell ? 
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 
Where I may find tlie agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 
O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
And steeds witli streamy manes — the 

charioteer 
Looks out ujjon the winds with glorious 

fear : 
And now the numerous tramplings 

quiver lightly 
Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now 

with spriglitly 
Wheel downward come they into fresher 

skies, 
Tipt round with silver from the sun's 

briglit eyes. 
Still downward with capacious whirl 

they glide ; 
And now I see them on a green-hill's 

side 
In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
The charioteer with wond'rous gesture 

talks 
To the trees and mountains ; and there 

soon appear 
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 
Passing along before a dusky space 
Made, by some mighty oaks : as they 

would chase 
Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep. 
Lo ! how they murmur; laugh, and 

smile, and weep : 
Some with upholden hand and mouth 

severe ; 
Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
Between their arms ; some, clear in 

youthful bloom, 
Go glad and smilingly athwart the 

gloom ; 
Some looking back, and some with up- 
ward gaze ; 
Yes, thousands in a thousand different 

ways 
Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of 

girls 
Dancing their sleek hair into tangled 

curls ; 
And now broad wings. Most awfully 

intent 
The driver of those steeds is forward 

bent, 
And seems to listen : O that I might 

know [glow. 

All that he writes with such a hurrying 



The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their 

stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly 

strong, 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear 

along 
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
Against all doublings, and will keep 

alive 
The thought of that same cliariot, and 

the .strange 
Journey it went. 

Is tliere so small a range 
In the presentstrengthof manhood, that 

the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? j^repare her 

steeds, 
Paw up against the liglit,and do strange 

deeds 
Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us 

all? 
From the clear space of ether, to the 

small 
Breath of new buds unfolding ? From 

tlie meaning 
Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender 

greening 
Of April meadows ? Here her altar 

shone, 
E'en in this isle ; and wlio could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 
Huge as a planet, and like that roll 

round, 
Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh 

cloy'd 
With honors ; nor had any other care 
Than to sing out and soothe their wavy 

hair. 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a 

scliism 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 
Made great Apollo blush for this his 

land. 
Men were thought wise who could not 

understand 
His glories : with a puling infant's force 
They sway'd about upon a rocking liorse. 
And thouglit it Pegasus. Ah dismal 

soul'd ! 
The winds of heaven blew, tlie ocean 

roU'd [bhie 

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The 



KEATS 



377 



Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
Of summer nights collected still to make 
The inorning precious : beauty was 

awake ! 
Why were ye not awake? But ye were 

dead 
To things ye knew not of, — were closely 

wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched 

rule 
And compass vile : so that ye taught a 

school 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and 

fit, 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's 

wit, 
Their verses tallied. Easy was tlie task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the 

mask 
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his 

face. 
And did not know it, — no. they went 

about, 
Holding a poor, decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in 

large 
The name of one Boileau ! 

O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot 

trace 
Your hallowed names, in this unholy 

place. 
So near those common folk ; did not 

their shames 
Aflfriglit you ? Did our old lamenting 

Thames 
Delight you ? Did ye never cluster 

round 
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel 

grew ? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone spirits who could proudly 

sing 
Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even 

so : 
But let me think away those times of 

woe : 
Now "tis a fairer season ; ye have 

breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have 

wreathed 
Fresh garlands :' for sweet music has 

been heard 



In many places ; — some has been up- 

stirrVi 
From out its ciystal dwelling in a lake, 
By a swan's ebon bill ; from a tliick 

brake. 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating 

wild 
About the earth : iiappy areyeandglad. 

These things are doubtless : yet in truth 

we've had 
Strange thunders from the potency of 

song ; 
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and 

strong. 
From majesty : but in clear truth tlie 

themes 
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless 

shower 
Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of 

jjower ; 
'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own 

right arm. 
The very archings of her eye-lids charm 
A thousand willing agents to obe.y. 
And still she governs with the mildest 

sway : 
But strengtli alone though of the Muses 

burn 
Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn, 
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and 

sepulchres 
Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 
And thorns of life ; forgetting the great 

end 
Of poesy, that it should be a friend 
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts 

of man. 

Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter 

weeds 
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant 

screen, 
Creep through the shade with jaunty 

fluttering. 
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
Then let us clear away the choking 

thorns 
From round its gentle stem ; let the 

young fawns, 
Yeaned in after times, when we are 

flown. 
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
With simple flowers : let there nothing be 



378 



BRITISH POETS 



More boisterous than a lover's bended 

knee ; 
Nought more ungentle than the placid 

look 
Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
Nought more untranquil than the grassy 

slopes 
Between two hills. All hail delightful 

hopes ! 
As she was wont, th' imagination 
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
And tliey shall be accounted poet kings 
Who simply tell the most heart-easing 

things. 
O may these joys be ripe before I die. 

Will not some say that I presumptuously 
Have spoken ? tliat from liastening dis- 
grace 
'Twere better far to hide my foolish 

face ? 
That whining boyliood should with re- 
verence bow 
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? 

How ! 
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
If I do fall, at least I will l)e laid 
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade : 
And over me the grass sliall be smooth 

shaven : 
And there shall be a kind memorial 

graven. 
But off Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
Tliey should not know thee, who athirst 

to gain 
A noble end, are thirst}^ every hour. 
What though I am not wealthy in the 

dower 
Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not 

know 
The shiftings of the mighty winds that 

blow 
Hither and thither all tlie changing 

thoughts 
Of man : though no great minist'ring 

reason sorts 
Out the dark mj^steries of human souls 
To clear conceiving : j^et there ever rolls 
A vast idea before me, and I glean 
Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I've 

seen 
The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 
As anything most true ; as that the year 
Is made of the four sensons — manifest 
As a large cross, some old cathedral's 

crest. 
Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore 

should I 



Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eye- lids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to 

think. 
Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 
Over some precipice : let the hot sun 
Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me 

down 
Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an in- 
ward fro\vn 
Of conscience bids me be more calm 

awhile. 
An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an 

isle, 
Spreads awfully before me. How much 

toil ! 
How many dajs ! what desperate tur- 
moil ! 
Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 
Ah, what a task ! upon my liended knees, 
I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
Impossible ! 

For sweet relief I'll dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let tliis 

strange assay 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom 

fades : 
I turn full hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the patii of honor ; brother- 
hood. 
And friendliness tlie nurse of mutual 

good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant 

sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
The silence when some rhymes are 

coming out ; 
And when they're come, the very 

pleasant rout : 
The message certain to be done to- 
morrow. 
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to 

borrow 
Some precious book from out its snug 

retreat. 
To cluster round it when we next shall 

meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely tiirs 
Are fluttering round the room like doves 

in pairs ; 
Many delights of tliat glad day recalling. 
When first my senses caught their tender 

falling. 
And witli these airs come forms of 

elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's 

Ijrance, 



KEATS 



379 



Careless, and grand — fingers soft and 

round 
Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift 

bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his 

eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 

Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
Of a swan's neck unseen among tlie 

rushes : 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
A butterfly, with golden wings broad 

parted 
Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it 

smarted 
With over pleasure — many, many more, 
Miglit I indulge at large in all my store 
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
Sleep, quiet, with his poppy coronet : 
For what there may be worthy in these 

rhymes 
I partly owe to him : and thus, the 

chimes 
Of friendly voices had just given place 
To as sweet a silence, wlien I 'gan retrace 
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
It was a poet's house ^ wlio keeps the keys 
Of pleasure's temple. Round about were 

hung 
The glorious features of the bards wdio 

sung 
In other ages— cold and sacred busts 
Smiled at each other. Happy he who 

trusts 
To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 
Then there were fauns and satyrs taking 

aim 
At swelling apples with a frisky leap 
And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious 

heap 
Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view 

a fane 
Of liny marble, and thereto a train 
Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the 

swai'd : 
One, loveliest, holding her white hand 

toward 
The dazzling sun-rise : two sisters sweet 
Bending their graceful figures till they 

meet 
Over the trippings of a little child : 
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

' Lei^h Hunt's. The following lines are a de- 
scription of the room in which the poem was 
written, with its decorations. 



Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, nymphs are 
wiping 

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle 
motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when 
ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smooth- 
ness o'er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once 
more 

The patient weeds ; that now unshent 
by foam 

Feel all about their undulating home. 

Sappho's meek head was there half 

smiling down 
At nothing ; just as though the earnest 

frown 
Of over thinking had that nioTuent gone 
From oflf her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitj'- 

ing eyes, 
As if he always listened to the sighs 
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's 

w^orn 
By horrid suflfrance — mightily forlorn. 

Peti'arch, outstepping from the sliadj^ 

green , 
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can 

^;\'ean 
His eyes from her sweet face. Most 

liappy they ! 
For over them was seen a free display 
Of out-spread wings, and from between 

them shone 
The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
She overlook'd things that I scarce could 

tell. 
The very sense of where I was might 

well 
Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that 

there came 
Thought after thought to nourish up 

the flame 
Within my breast ; so that the morning 

light 
Surprised me even from a sleepless night; 
And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and 

.2;ay, 
Resolving to begin that very, day 
These lines ; and howsoeve-r they be 

done, 
I leave them as a father does his son. 
? ism. 1817. 



38o 



BRITISH POETS 



AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE 
OPPRESSED OUR PLAINS 

After dark vapors have oppressed our 
plains 

For a long dreary season, comes a day 

Born of tlie gentle South, and clears 
away 

From the sick heavens all unseemly 
stains. [pains. 

The anxious month, relieved from its 

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of 
May. 

The eyelids with the passing coolness 
play. 

Like rose leaves with the drip of sum- 
mer rains. 

And calmest thoughts come round us — 
as, of leaves 

Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — 
autumn suns 

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 

Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping in- 
fant's breath, — 

The gradual sand that through an hour- 
glass runs. — 

A woodland rivulet, a Poet's deatli. 
January, 1S17. February 33, 1817. 

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

[Dedication of the volume of 1817] 

GLf)RY and loveliness have passed away ; 
For if we wander out in early morn. 
No wreatlied incense do we see up- 
borne 
Into the east, to meet the smiling da}' : 
No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and 

young, and gay. 
In woven baskets bringing ears of 

corn. 
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
Tiie slirine of Flora in lier early May. 
But there are left deliglits as high as 

these, 
And I shall ever bless my destinj'^. 
That in a time, when under pleasant 

trees 
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 
With these poor offerings, a man like 
thee. 1S17. 1817. 

ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 

My spirit is too weak — mortality 
Weiglis heavily on me like unwilling 
sleep, 



And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 
Of godlike liardship tells me I must die 
Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep 
That I have not the cloudy winds to 

keep. 
Fresh for the opening of the morning's 

eye. 
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
Bring round the heart an vmdescri- 

bable feud ; 
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain. 
That mingles Grecian grandeur with 

tlie rude 
Wasting of old Time — with a billowy 

main — 
A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 

1817. March 9, 1817. 

ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 

Come hither all sweet maidens soberl}^ 
Down-looking aye, and with a chastened 

light 
Hid in the fringes of your e3'elids white. 
And meekly let your fair hands joined 

be. 
As if so gentle tliat ye could not see. 
Untouched', a victim of your beauty 

bright. 
Sinking awny to his young spirit's night, 
Sinking bewildered 'mid the dreary sea : 
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death ; 
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary 

lips 
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against 

her smile. 
O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam 

awhile : 
He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous 

breath ! ? . . . . 1829. 

ON THE SEA 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 

Desolate shores, and with its mighty 
swell 

Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till 
the spell 

Of Hecate leaves them their old shad- 
owy sound. 

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found. 

That scarcely will tlie very smallest 
shell 

Be moved for days from whence it some- 
time fell, 

When last the winds of heaven were un- 
bound. 



KEATS 



381 



Oh ye 1 wlio have your eye-balls vexed 

and tired. 
Feast them upon the wideness of the 

Sea ; 
Oh ye ! whose ears are dinned with 

uproar rude. 
Or fed too much with cloying melody, — • 
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and 

brood 
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs 

quired ! August, 1817. 1848. 

WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I 
MAY CEASE TO BE 

When I liave fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming 

brain, 
Before high piled books, in charact'iy. 
Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd 

grain ; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd 

face. 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And thiidi that I may iiever live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of 

chance ; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an 

hour ! 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never liave relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love ! — then on the 

sliore 
Of the \vi<le world I stand alone, and 

think 
Till Love and Fame to notliingness do 

sink. 1S17. 1848. 

FROM ENDYMION 
BOOK I 



A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness ; but still will 

keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 

quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we 

wreathing 
A flovvery band to bind us to the earth. 
Spite of despondence, of tlie inhuman 

dearth 
Of noble natures, of tlie gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened 

ways 



Made for our searching : yes, in spite of 

all. 
Some shape of beauty moves away the 

pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, 

the moon. 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady 

boon 
For simple sheep ; and sucli are daffodils 
With the gi-een world tliey live in ; and 

clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert 

make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest 

brake. 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 

blooms : 
And such too is the grandeur of the 

dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or 

read : 
An endless fountain of immortal driidc , 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one siiort hour ; no, even as the trees 
Tliat whisper round a temple become 

soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the 

moon. 
The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
Haunt us till they become a cheering 

light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast. 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom 

o'ercast. 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness 

that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as tlie green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now wliile I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Nowwliile.the early budders are just 

new. 
And run in mazes of the j^oungest hue 
About old forests; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as 

the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly 

steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
With streams that deepen fresldy into 

bovvers. 



© 



^ -^ -= t^' ^^ 






-A 



382 



BRITISH POETS 



Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and 

white, 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the 

bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet 

peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it lialf finished : but let Autumn 

bold, 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me wlien I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness : 
Tliere let its trumpet blow, and quickly 

dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I 

may speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and 

weed. 

HYIVm TO PAN 

O THOU, whose mighty palace roof 

doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, 

deatli 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels 

darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost 

sit, and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture 

breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange over- 
growth ; 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do tliou 

now. 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling inazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 

O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, 
turtles 

Passion their voices cooingly 'mong 
myrtles, 

Wliat time thou wanderest at eventide 

Through sunny meadows, that outskii't 
the side 

Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to 
whom 

Broad leaved fig trees even now fore- 
doom 

Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow girted 
bees 



Their golden honeycombs ; our village 
leas 

Their fairest-blos.som'd beans and pop- 
pied corn ; 

The chuckling linnet its five 3^oung un- 
born, 

To sing for thee ; low creeping straw- 
berries 

Their summer coolness ; pent up butter- 
flies 

Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh 
budding year 

All its completions — be quickly near. 

By every wind that nods tlie mountain 
pine, 

O forester divine ! 

Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr 
flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
Tlie squatted hare while in half sleeping 

fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's 

maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path 

again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy 

main. 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For tliee to tumble into Naiads' cells. 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out- 
peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leap- 
ing. 
The while they pelt each other on the 

crown 
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones 

brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
Hear us, O satj r king ! 

O Hearkener to the loud clapping 

shears. 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A I'am goes bleating : Winder of the 

horn. 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender 

corn 
Anger our huntsman : Breather round 

our farms. 
To keep off mildews, and all weather 

liarms : 
Strange ministrant of undescribed 

sounds, 
Tliat come a swooning over hollow 

grounds. 
And wither drearily on barren moors : 



KEATS 



383 



Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dry ope, 
The many that are come to pay their 

vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of 

heaven. 
Tiien leave the naked brain : be still 

the leaven. 
That spreading in tliis dull and clodded 

eartli 
Gives it a toucli ethereal — a new birth : 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — but no more : we humbly 

screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly 

bending, 
And giving out a shout most heaven- 
rending, 
Conjure thee to receive our humble 

Paean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 

THE COMING OF DIAN 

[Endyniion speaks, to his Sister Peona.] 

" Tills river does not see the naked sky. 
Till it begins to progress silverly 
Around tlie western border of the wood, 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding 

flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent 

moon ; 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
There rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
And I could witness his most kingly liour. 
When he doth lighten up the golden 

reins. 
And paces leisurely down amber plains 
His snorting four. Now when his chariot 

last 
Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 
Tliere blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
Of sacred ditamy. and poppies red : 
At wliich I wondered greatly, knowing 

well 
Tiiat but one night had wrought this 

flowery spell ; 
And, sitting down close by, began to 

muse 



What it might mean. Perhaps, thought 

I, Morpheus, 
In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 
Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 
Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 
Had dipt his rod in it : such garland 

wealth 
Came not by common growth. Thus on 

I thought. 
Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
Moreover, through the dancing poppies 

stole 
A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul ; 
And sliaping visions all about my sight 
Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly 

light ; 
The which became more strange, and 

strange, and dim. 
And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous 

swim : 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
Tlie enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although itoverteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern 

spring, 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I belield and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky 

way 
Among the stars in virgin splendor 

jjours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of lieaven appeared to open for my flight, 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward 

glance : 
So kept me stedfast in that airy trance. 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
When, presentlj^ the stars began to glide, 
And faint away, before my eager view : 
At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue. 
And dropped my vision to the horizon's 

verge ; [emerge 

And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw 
The loveliest moon, tliat ever silver'd o'er 
A slieil for Neptune's goblet : she did 

soar 
So passionately briglit, my dazzled soul 
Commingling with her argent spheres 

did roll 
Through clear and cloudy, even when 

she went 
At last into a dark and vapory tent — 
Whereat, methought, tlie lidless-eyed 

train 
Of planets all were in the blue again. 
To t;ommune with those orbs, once more 

I rais'd 



384 



BRITISH POETS 



My sight right upward : but it was quite 

dazed 
By a bright something, sailing down 

apace. 
Making me quickly veil my eyes and 

face : 
Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, 
Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
Whence that completed form of all com- 
pleteness ? 
Whence came that high perfection of all 

sweetness ? 
Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me 

wliere, O wliere 
Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 
Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western 

sun ; [shvin 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me 
Such foilying before thee — yet she had. 
Indeed, locks bright enougli to make me 

mad ; 
And they were simply gordian'd up and 

braided, 
Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 
Her pearl round ears, white neck, and 

orbed brow ; 
The which were blended in, I know not 

how. 
With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 
Blush-tinted clieeks, lialf smiles, and 

faintest sighs. 
That, when I tliink thereon, my spirit 

clings 
And plays about its fancy, till the stings 
Of human neighborhood envenom all. 
Unto what awful ])ower shall I call ? 
To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hover- 
ing feet, 
More bluely vein'd, more soft, more 

whitely sweet 
Than tliose of sea-born Venus, when she 

rose 
From out her cradle shell. The wind 

out-blows 
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
'Tis blue, and ovei'-spangled with a mil- 
lion 
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to 

shed, 
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, 
Handfuls of daisies." — " Endymion, how 

strange ! 
Dream within dream ! " — " She took an 

airy range. 
And then, towards me, like a very maid. 
Came blusliing, waning, willing, and 

afraid. 
And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas 

too much ; 



Methought I fainted at the charmed 

touch, 
Yet held my recollection, even as one 
Who dives three fathoms where the 

waters run ' 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 
I felt upmounted in that region 
Where falling stars dart their artillery 

forth. 
And eagles struggle with the buffeting 

north 
Tliat balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 
Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone. 
But lapp'd and luU'd along the danger- 
ous sky. 
Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journey- 
ing high. 
And straightway into frightful eddies 

swoop'd ; 
Such as aye muster where gray time has 

scoop'd 
Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's 

side : 
Their hollow sounds arous'd me, and I 

sigh'd 
To faint once more by looking on my 

bliss — 
I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 
The wooing arms which held me, and 

did give 
My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to 

live. 
To take in draughts of life f 10m the gold 

fount 
Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, 

and count 
The moments, by some greedy help that 

seem'd [deem'd 

A second self, that each might be re- 
AtuI plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 
Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dar'd to 

press 
Her very cheek against my crowned lip. 
And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
Into a warmer air : a moment more. 
Our feet were soft in flowers. There 

was store 
Of nevvest joys upon that alp. Some- 
times 
A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells, 
Made delicate from all white-flower 

bells ; 
And once, above the edges of our nest. 
An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I 

guess'd. 

"Why did I dream that sleep o'er- 
power'd me 



KEATS 



385 



In midst of all this heaven ? Why not 

see. 
Far off, tlie shadows of liis pinions dark. 
And stare them from me ? But no, like 

a spark 
That needs must die, although its little 

beam 
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
A careful moving caught my waking 

ears, 
And up I started : Ah ! my siglis, my 

tears. 
My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies 

hung [sung 

Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel 
A heavy ditt\\ and the sullen day 
Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
With leaden looks : tlie solitary breeze 
Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did 

teaze 
With wayward melancholy ; and I 

thought, 
Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it 

brought. 
Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled 

adieus ! — 
Away I vvander'd — all the pleasant luies 
Of heaven and earth- had faded : deei)est 

shades 
Were deepest dungeons ; heatiis and 

sunny glades 
Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless 

rills 
Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with up- 

turn'd gills 
Of dying flsh ; the vermeil rose had blown 
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out- 
grown 
Like spiked aloe. If an innoceiit bird 
Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and 

stirr'd 
In little journeys, I beheld in it 
A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit 
My soul with under darkness ; to entice 
My stumblings down some monstrous 

precipice : 
Tlierefore I eager followed, and did curse 
The disappointment. Time, that aged 

nurse, 
Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank 

gentle heaven ! 
These things, with all their comfortings, 

are given 
To my down-sunken hours, and with 

thee. 
Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
Of weary life." 

25" 



FROM BOOK II 

INVOCATION TO THE POWER OF LOVE 

O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! 

O balm ! 
All records, saving thine, come cool, and 

calm, 
And shadowy, through the mist of 

passed years : 
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 
Have become indolent ; but touching 

thine. 
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth 

pine. 
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried 

days. 
The woes of Troy, towers smothering 

o'er their blaze, 
Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, 

keen blades. 
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all 

dimly fades 
Into some backward corner of the brain ; 
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded 

cheat ! 
Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur 

breeds 
Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
Many old rotten-timber'd boats tliere be 
Upon thy A-aporous bosom, niagnilied 
To goodly vessels : manj^ a sail of pride. 
And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd 

and dry. 
But wlierefore this ? What care, though 

owl did fly 
About the great Athenian admiral's 

mast ? 
What care, though striding Alexander 

past 
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 
Tliough old Ulysses tortured from his 

shnnbers 
The glutted Cyclops, what care? — Juliet 

leaning 
Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — 

weaning 
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden 

snow, [flow 

Doth more avail than these : the silver 
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
Are things to brood on with more ardency 
Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 
Must such conviction come upon his 

head, 



386 



BRITISH POETS 



Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to 
tread, 

Without one muse's smile, or kind be- 
hest. 

The path of love and poesy. But rest, 

In chafing restlessness, is yet more 
drear 

Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 

Love's standard on the battlements of 
song. 

So once more days and nights aid me 
along, 

Like legion'd soldiers. 

FROM BOOK IV 

ROUNDELAY 

"0 Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil 
lips ? 

To give maiden blushes 

To tlie white rose buslies ? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

" O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
Tlie lustrous passion fioni a falcon -eye ? — 

To give the glow-worm light? 

Or, on a moonless niglit, 
To tinge, on siren shores, tlie salt sea- 
spray ? 

" O Sorrow, 

Wliy dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning 
tongue ? — 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale. 
That thou mavst listen the cold dews 



" O Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 

Heart's liglitness froiu ihe merriment of 
May ?— 
A lover would not tread 
A cowslip on the head. 

Though he should dance from eve till 
peep of day — 
Nor any drooping flower 
Held sacred for tliy bower, 

Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

" To Sorrow, 
I bade good-morrow. 
And thought to leave her far away be- 
hind ; 



But cheerly, cheerly. 

She loves ine dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind : 

I would deceive her 

And so leave her, 
But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 

" Beneath my palm trees, by the river 

side, 
I sat a-weeping : in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me win' I wept, — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lih' cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 

"Beneath my palm trees, by the river 

side, 
I sat a-weeping : what enamor'd bride. 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the 
clouds. 
But hides and shrouds 
Beneath dark palm trees by a river side ? 

" And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple 

hue — 
' Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver 

tin-ills 
From kissing cymbals made a merry 

din — 
' Twas Bacchus and his kin 1 
Like to a moving vintage down they 

came, 
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all 

on flame ; 
All madly dancing through the pleasant 

vallej'. 
To scare thee. Melancholy ! 
O then, O then, thou wast a simple 

name ! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds, is forgotten, when, in 

June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and 

moon : — 
I rush'd into the folly ! 

" Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus 

stood. 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood. 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, 
enough white 

For Venus' pearly bite ; 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quaffing. 



KEATS 



387 



" Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! 

whence came ye ! 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why liave ye left your bowers desolate, 
Your lutes, and j^entler fate ? — 
' We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the 
wing, 
A conquering ! 
Bacchus, young Bacclius ! good or ill be- 
tide. 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms 

wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our wild minstrelsy ! ' 

" Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence 
came ye ! 

So many, and so many, and such glee ? 

Why have ye left your forest haunts, 
why left 
Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 

' For wine, for wine we left our kernel 
tree ; 

For wine we left our heath, and yellow 
brooms. 
And cold mushrooms ; 

For wine we follow Bacchus tlirough the 
earth ; 

Great God of breathless cups and chirp- 
ing mirth ! — 

Come liither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our mad minstrelsy ! ' 

" Over wide streams and mountains great 

we went, [tent, 

And. save when Bacchus kept his ivy 
On\yard tlie tiger and the leopard pants. 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and 

dance. 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' 

prance. 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
Plump infant laughers mimicking the 

coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley-rower's toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they 

glide, 
Nor care for wind and tide. 

" Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' 
manes, [plains : 

From rear to van tliey scour about tlie 
A three days' journej' in a moment done : 
And always, at the rising of the sun, 
About the wilds they hunt with spear 
and horn. 
On spleenful unicorn. 



'• I saw Osirian Egj-pt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath ci'own ! 
I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce ! 
The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres 

vail, 
And from tlieir treasures scatter pearled 

hail ; 
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven 
groans. 
And all his priesthood moans. 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning 

pale. — 
Into these regions came I following 

him, 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear 

Alone, without a peer : 
And I have told thee all thou mayest 
hear. 

" Young stranger ! 

I've been a ranger 
In search of pleasure throughout every 
clime : 

Alas ! 'tis not for me ! 

Bewitch'd I sure must be, 
To lose in gi-ievnig all my maiden prime. 

" Come then. Sori'ow ! 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my 
breast : 

I tliought to leave thee 

And deceive tliee, 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

"There is not one. 

No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 

Thou art her mother, 

And her brother. 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the 
shade." 

THE FEAST OF DIAN 

Who, who from Dian's feast would be 

away ? 
For all t1\3 golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, wjio away would 

be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity? 
Not Hesperus: lo ! upon his silver 

wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and 

sings, 



388 



BRITISH POETS 



Snapping his lucid fingers merrilj' ! — 

Ah, Zephyius ! art liere, and Flora too ! 

Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 

Young playmates of the rose and daffo- 
dil. 

Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 
Your Imskets high 

With fennel green, and balm, and gold- 
en pines, 

Savory, latter-mint, antl columbines, 

Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny 
thyme ; 

Yea, every flower and leaf of every 
clime. 

All gather'd in the dewy morning : hie 
Away ! fly. fly !— 

Crystalline brotlierof the belt of heaven. 

Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 

Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of 
feather'd wings. 

Two fan-like fountains, — thine illumin- 
ings 

For Dian play : 

Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 

Let thy white shoulders silvery and 
bare 

Slievv cold through watery pinions ; 
make more bright 

Tiie Star-Queen's crescent on her mar- 
riage night : 

Haste, haste away ! — 

Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 

And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 

A third is in the race ! who is tiie 
third, 

Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 
The tramping Centaur ! 

Tiie Lion's mane's on end : the Bear 
how fierce ! 

Tlie Centaur's arrow ready seems to 
pierce 

Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 

Into the blue of heaven. He'll beshent. 
Pale unrelentor, 

Wiien he shall hear the wedding lutes a- 
playhig.— 

Andromeda! sweet vp^oman ! why delay- 
ing 

So timidly among the stars : come hither ! 

Join tliis briglit throng, and nimbly fol- 
low whither 

They all are going. 

Danae's Son, befoi'e Jove newly bow'd. 

Has wept for thee, calling to Jove 
aloud. 

Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral : 

Ye shall for ever live and hn-e, fen- all 
Thy tears are flowing. 

1S17. iyi8. 



ROBIN HOOD 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours arc old and gray. 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of manj^ years : 
Many times have winter's shears. 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of tlie forest's whispering fleeces. 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more. 
And the twanging bow no naore ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh. 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wiglit, amaz'd to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, witli sun or moon, 
Or the seven stars to light J'ou, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behokl 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan, 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the jjasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, tlie tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the " grene shawe ; " 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if liobin should be cast 
Sudden from his turfed grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
Slie w^ould weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wil<l bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that lioney 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So it is : yet let us sing. 
Honor to the old bow-string ! 
Honor to the bugle- horn ! 
Honor to the woods nnsliorn ! 
Honor to the Lincoln green ! 



KEATS 



389 



Honor to the archer keen ! 
Honor to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honor to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood-clan ! 
Though their daj's have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 

February 3, 181S. 1820. 

IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 

In a drear- nighted December, 

Too happ5% happy tree, 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them, 

With a sleety wiiistle through them : 

Nor frozen tliawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happ\', happy brook. 

Thy bubblings ne'er remember 

Apollo's summer look ; 

But with a sweet forgetting. 

They stay tlieir crystal fretting, 

Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were tliere ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy ? 
To know tlie change and feel it. 
When there is none to lieal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
Was never said in rhyme. 

?. . . 1829. 

TO AILSA ROCK 

Hearken, tliou craggy ocean pyramid I 

Give answer from thy voice, tlie sen- 
fowls' screams ! 

Wlien were thy slioulders mantled in 
huge streams ? 

When, from the sun, was thy broad fore- 
head hid ? 

How long is't since the mighty power bid 

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom 
dreams ? 

Sleep in tlie lap of thunder or sun- 
beams. 

Or wlien gray clouds are thj' cold cover- 
lid. 

Thou answer'st not ; for tliou art dead 
asleep ; 



Thy life »s but two dead eternities — 
The last in air, the former in the deep, 
First with the whales, last with the 

eagle-skies — 
Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake 

made thee steep. 
Another cannot wake thy giant size. 
July, ISIS. 1819. 

THE HUMAN SEASONS 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the 

year ; 
There are four seasons in the mind of 

man : 
He has his lustj' Spring, when fancy clear 
Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
He has his Summer, wlien luxuriously 
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought 

he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his 

wings 
He f urleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal na- 
ture. ?. . . 1819. 

TO HOMER 

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 

Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 

As one who sits ashore and longs per- 
chance 

To visit Dolphin-coral in deep seas. 

So thou wast blind ; — but then the veil 
was rent. 

For Jove uncurtained Heaven to let thee 
live. 

And Neptune made for thee a spumy 
tent, 

And Fan made sing for thee his forest- 
hive. 

Aye, on the shores of darkness there is 
light. 

And precipices show untrodden green. 

There is a budding morrow in mid- 
night, ^ 

There is a triple sight in blindness keen ; 

Such seeing hadst thou, as it once 
befell 

To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, 
and Hell. 1818. 1848. 

• Forman records in his notes that Rossetti 
considered this to be " Keats' finest single line 
of poetry." (Keats' Works, II., 2.38.) 



39° 



BRITISH POETS 



LINES 

ON 

THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elj'sium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have 3'e tippled di'ink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Di-est as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard tliat on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobodj' knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story. 
Said he saw you in j'our glorj', 
Underneath a new old sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
Wliat Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 

ISIS. 1820. 

FANCY 

Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Tlien let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still si)read beyond 

her : 
Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 
And tlie enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming ; 
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 
Bkishing through the mist and dew, 
Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
Tlie sear fagot blazes bright, 
Spirit of a winter's night ; 
When tlie soundless earth is muffled, 
And the caked snow is shuffleil 
From the plougliboy"s heavy shoon : 



When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit tliee tliere, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overaw'd 

Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend lier : 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth liatli lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weiitber ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray : 

All the lieaped Autumn's wejiltli. 

With a still, niysterious stealth : 

Slie will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup. 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt 

hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
And, in the same moment — hark I 
'Tis the early April lark. 
Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
Foraging for sticks and straw. 
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
Tlie daisy and the marigold ; 
White-pkiin'd lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
Sliaded hyacintli, alvvay 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou slialt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in tlie liawthorn-tree, 
AVhen tlie henbird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
Wliile the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Every thing is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade. 
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Whei'e's the eye, however blue, 
Dotli not weary ? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where's the voice, however soft. 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles wlien rain peltetli. 



KEATS 



391 



Let, then, winged Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thj^ mind : 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when lier zone 

Slipped its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet. 

While she held the goblet sweet. 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the 

mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
Quickly break her prison-string 
And sucli joys as these she'll bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam. 
Pleasure never is at home. 1818. 1820. 

ISABELLA 

OR 
THE POT OF BASIL 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a j^oung palmer in Love's 
eye! 
They could not in the self-same mansion 
dwell 
Without some stir of heart, some 
malady ; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how 
well 
It sootlied each to be tlie other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same 

roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly 
weep. 

With every morn their love grew ten- 
derer. 
With everv eve deeper and tenderer 
still : 
He might not in house, field, or garden 
stir, 
But her full shape would all his seeing 
fill; 
And his continual voice was pleasanter 
To her, than noise of trees or hidden 
rill ; 
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 
She spoilt her lialf-done broidery with 
the same. 

He knew whose gentle hand was at the 
latch, 
Before the door had given her to his 
eyes ; 



And from her chamber-window he 
would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon 
spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he 
watch. 
Because her face was turn'd to the 
same skies ; 

And with sick longing all the night out- 
wear, 

To liear her morning-step upon the stair. 

A whole long month of May in this sad 
plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break 
of June : 
"To-morrow will I bow to my delight. 
To-morrow will I ask my lady's 
boon." — 
" O may I never see another night, 
Lorenzo, if thy lips breatlie not 
love's tune." — 
So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 
Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 

Until sweet Isabella's untovich'd cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 
Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth 
seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 
" How ill she is," said he, " I may not 
speak. 
And yet I will, and tell my love all 
plain : 
If looks speak love-laws, I will drink 

her tears. 
And at the least 'twill startle off her 
cares." 

So said he one fair morning, ancj all day 
His heart beat awfvilly against his 
side ; 
And to his heart he inwardly did pray 
For power to speak ; but still the ruddy 
tide 
Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve 
away — 
Fever'd his high conceit of such a 
bride. 
Yet brought him to the meekness of a 

child : 
Alas ! when passion is both meek and 
wild ! 

So once more he had wak'd and an- 
guished 

A dreary night of love and misery. 
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high ; 



392 



BRITISH POETS 



She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 
And straight all fiush'd ; so, lisped 

tenderly, 
" Lorenzo ! " — here she ceas'd her timid 

quest, 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

" O Isabella, I can half perceive 
That I may speak my grief into thine 
ear ; 
If thou didst ever anything believe, 
Believe how I love thee, believe how 
near 
My soul is to its doom : I would not 
grieve 
Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, 
would not fear 
Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot 

live 
Another night, and not my passion 
shrive. 

' ' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry 

cold. 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer 

clime, 
And I must taste the blossoms that 

unfold 
In its ripe warmth this gracious 

morning time."' 
So said, his erewliile timid lips grew 

bold. 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 
Great bliss was with tliem, and great 

happiness 
Grew, like a lusty flower in June's 

caress. 

Parting they seem'd to tread upon the 
air, 
Twin roses bj^ the zephyr blown apart 
Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's 
heart. 
She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd 
dart ; 
He with light steps went up a western 

hill, 
And bade the sun farewell, and ioy'd 
his fill. 

All close they met again, before tlie dusk 
Had taken from tlie stars its pleasant 
veil. 
All close they met, all eves, before the 
dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
veil, 



Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk. 
Unknown of any, free frona whisper- 
ing tale. 
Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 
Than idle ears should pleasure in their 
woe. 

Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot 
be- 
Too many tears for lovers have been 
slied. 
Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 

Too much of pitj^ after they are dead, 
Too many doleful stories do we see. 
Whose matter in brigiit gold were best 
be read ; 
Except in such a page where Tlieseus' 

spouse 
Over the pathless waves towards him 
bows. 

But, for the general award of love. 
The little sweet dotli kill much bitter- 
ness ; 
Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 

And Isabella's was a great distress. 
Tliough young Lorenzo in warm Indian 
clove 
Was not embalm'd, this truth is not 
the less — 
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring- 
bowers, 
Know there is richest juice in poison- 
flowers. 

With her two brothers this fair lady 
dwelt, 
Enriched from ancestral merchandise, 
And for them many a weary hand did 
swelt 
In torched mines and noisy factories. 
And many once proud-quiver'd loins did 
melt 
In blood from stinging whip ; — with 
hollow eyes 
Many all day in dazzling river stood, 
To take the rich-ored driftings of the 
flood. 

For them the Ceylon diver held his 

breath, 
And went all naked to the hungry 

si 1 ark : 
For them his ears gush'd blood ; for 

them in death 
Tlie seal on the cold ice with piteous 

bark 
Lay full of darts ; for them alone did 

seethe 



KEATS 



393 



A thousand men in troubles wide and 

dark : 
Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy 

wheel. 
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch 

and peel. 

Why were thej' proud ? Because their 

marble founts 
Gush'd with more pride than do a 

wretch's tears ? — 
Why were they proud? Because fair 

orange-mounts 
Were of more soft ascent than lazar 

stairs ? — 
Why were they proud ? Because red- 

lin'd accounts 
AVere riclier than the songs of Grecian 

years ? — 
Why were they proud ? again we ask 

aloud. 
Why in the name of Glory were they 

proud ? 

Yet were these Florentines as self -re- 
tired 
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 
As two close Hebrews in that land in- 
spired. 
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar- 
spies ; 
The hawks of ship-mast forests — the un- 
titled 
And pannier'd mules for ducats and 
old lies — 
Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray- 
^ away, — 

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and 
Malay. 

How was it these same ledger-men could 
spy 
Fair Isabella in lier downy nest ? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 
A straying fi'om his toil? Hot Egypt's 
pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 
How could these money-bags see east 
and west ?— 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted liare. 

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now sliould ask forgiving 
boon. 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow. 
And of thy roses amorous of the moon. 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 
Now they can no more hear thy ghit- 
tern's tune, 



For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
Tlie quiet glooms of such a piteous 
tlieme. 

Grant thou a pardon here, and then tiie 
tale 
Sliall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
Tliere is no other crime, no mad assail 
To make old prose in modern rhyme 
more sweet : 
But it is done — succeed tlie verse or 
fail- 
To honor thee, and thy gone spirit 
greet ; 
To stead thee as a verse in English 

tongue. 
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 

These brethren having found by many 
signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 
And how she lov'd liim too, each uncon- 
fines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh 
mad 
That he, the servant of their trade de- 
signs, 
Should in tlieir sister's love be blithe 
and glad 
Wlien 'twas their plan to coax her by 

degrees 
To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

And many a jealous conference had 
tliey. 
And many times they bit their lips 
alone. 
Before thcj^ fix'd upon a surest way 
To make tlie youngster for his crime 
atone ; 
And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the 
bone ; 
For they resolved in some forest dim 
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
Into tiie sun-rise, o'er the balustrade 
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they 
bent 
Their footing througli the dews ; and 
to iiim said, 
"You seem there in the quiet of con- 
tent, 
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to 
invade 
Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 
Bestride j^our steed while cold is in the 
skies. 



394 



BRITISH POETS 



" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we 
mount 
To spur three leagues towards tlie 
Apennine ; 
Come down, we praj^ thee, ere the hot 
sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
Bow'd a fair greeting to these ser- 
pents' whine ; 
And went in liaste, to get in readiness. 
With belt, and spur, and bracing liunts- 
man's dress. 

And as he to the court-yard pass'd along. 
Each third step did he pause, and 
listen'd oft 
If he could hear his ladN^'s matin-song. 
Or the liglit whisper of her footstep 
soft ; 
And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He lieard a laugh full musical aloft ; 
Wlien, looking up, he saw lier features 

bright 
Smile thi-ough an in-door lattice, all 
delight. 

" Love, Isabel ! " said he, " I was in pain 
Lest I should miss to bid tliee a good 
morrow : 
Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when 
so fain 
I am to stifle all the lieavy sorrow 
Of a poor tliree hours' absence ? but 
we'll gain 
Out of the amorous dark what daj' 
doth borrow. 
Goodbye! I'll soon be back." — "Good 

bye ! " said slie : — 
And as he went she clianted merrily. 

So the two brothers and their murder'd 

man 
Rode past fair Florence, to where 

Arno's sti'eam 
Gurgles tlirough straiten'd banks, and 

still doth fan 
Itself witli dancing bulrush, and the 

bi'eain 
Keeps head against tlie freshets. Sick 

and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did 

seem, 
Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd 

the water 
Into a forest quiet for the slavighter. 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in. 
There in that forest did his great love 
cease ; 



Ah ! when a soul doth thvis its freedom 

win. 
It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
As the break-covert blood-hounds of 

such sin : 
The}^ dipp'd tlieir swords in the water, 

and did tease 
Tlieir horses homeward, with convulsed 

spur, 
Each riclier by liis being a murderer. 

They told their sister how, with sudden 
speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign 
lands* 
Because of some great urgency and need 
In their affairs, requiring trust}- hands. 
Poor Girl ! jjut on thy stifling widow's 
weed , 
And 'scape at once from Hope's ac- 
cursed bands ; 
To-day thou wilt not .see him, nor to- 
morrow. 
And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 

She weeps alone for plea,sures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came 
on. 
And tlien, instead of love, O misery ! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to .see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
Si)reading her perfect arms upon the air. 
And on her couch low murmuring, 
" Where ? O where ? " 

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not 
long 

Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
She fretted for the golden liour, and iumg 

Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
Not long — for soon into her heart a 
throng 

Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 
Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued. 
And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

In the mid days of autumn. on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far 
away. 
And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a round- 
elay 
Of death among the bushes and the 
leaves 
To make all bare before he cares to 
stray 
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 
.By gradual decay from beauty fell, 



KEATS 



395 



Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all 
pale, 
Striving to be itself, what dungeon 
climes 
Could keep him off so long ? They 
spake a tale. 
Time after time, to quiet her. Their 
crimes 
Came on them, like a smoke from 
Hinnom's vale ; 
And every night in dreams they groan'd 

aloud. 
To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than 

all; 
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by 

chance, 
Which saves a sick man from the 

feather'd pall 
For soine few gasping moments ; like a 

lance. 
Waking an Indian from his cloudy 

hall 
With cruel pierce, and bringing him 

again 
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and 

brain. 

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's 
foot 
Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest 
tomb 
Had marr'd his glossy hair which once 
could shoot 
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 
From his lorn voice, and past hisloamed 

ears 
Had made a miry channel for his tears. 

Strange sound it was, when the pale 
shadow spake ; 
For there was striving, in its piteous 
tongue. 
To speak as when on earth it was awake, 

And Isabella on its music hung : 
Languor there was in it, and tremulous 
shake, 
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 
And through it moan'd a ghostly under- 
song. 
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars 
among. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dew}' 
bright 



With love, and kept all phantom fear 
aloof 
From the poor girl by magic of their 
light. 
The while it did unthread the horrid 
woof 
Of the late darken'd time, — the murder- 
ous spite 
Of pride and avarice, the dark pine 
roof 
In the forest, — and the sodden turfed 

dell. 
Where, without any word, from stabs 
he fell. 

Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet! 
Red whortle-berries droop above my 
head. 

And a large flint-stone weighs upon my 
feet ; 
Around me beeches and high chest- 
nuts shed 

Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep- 
fold bleat 
Comes from beyond the river to my 
bed: 

Go, shed one tear upon my heather- 
bloom. 

And it shall comfort me within the 
tomb. 

"I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 
Upon the skirts of human-nature 
dwelling 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 
While little sounds of life are round 
me knelling. 
And glossy bees at noon do field ward 
pass, 
And many a chapel bell the hour is 

telling. 
Paining me through : those sounds 

grow strange to me. 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 

" I know what was, I feel full well what 
is, 
And I should rage, if spirits could go 
mad ; 
Though I forget the taste of earthly 
bliss. 
That paleness warms my grave, as 
though I had 
A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
To be my spouse: thy paleness makes 
me glad ; 
Thy beaut)^ grows uj^on ine, and I feel 
A greater love through all my essence 
steal." 



396 



BRITISH POETS 



The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!" — dis- 
solv'd, and left 
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
As when of healthful midnight sleep 
bereft, 
Thinking on rugged hours and fruit- 
less toil, 
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 
And see the spangly gloom froth up 
and boil : 
It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache. 
And in the dawn she started up awake ; 

" Ha ! ha ! " said she, " I knew not tliis 

hard life, 
I thought the worst was simple 

misery ; 
I thought some Fate with pleasure or 

with strife 
Portion 'd us — happy days, or else to 

die ; 
But there is crime — a brother's bloody 

knife ! 
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my 

infancy : 
ril visit thee for this, and kiss thine 

eyes, 
And greet thee morn and even in the 

skies." 

When the full morning came, she had 
devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 
How she might find the clay, so dearly 
prized. 
And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 
How her short absence might be un- 
surmised, 
While she the inmost of the dream 
would try, 
Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse. 
And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 

See. as they creep along the riverside. 
How she doth whisper to that aged 
Dame, 
And, after looking round the champaign 
wide. 
Shows her a knife. — "What feverous 
hectic flame 
Burns in thee, child ? — What good can 
thee betide, 
That thou should'st smile again?" — 
The evening came. 
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
The flint was there, the berries at his 
head. 

Who hath not loiter'd in a green church- 
yard, 



And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 
Work through the clayey soil and 
gravel hard. 
To see skull, coffin'd bones, and 
funeral stole ; 
Pitying each form that hungry Death 
hath marr'd. 
And filling it once more with human 
soul ? 
Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, 
as thougli 

One glance did fuUj' all its secrets tell ; 
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 

Pale limbs at bottom of a crj stal well ; 
Upon tiie murderous ajjot she seem'd to 
grow, 

Like to a Jiative lily of the dell : 
Tiien with her knife, allsndden. she began 
To dig moi"e fervently than misers can. 

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 

Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies. 

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than 

stone. 

And put it in her bosom, where it dries 

And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's 
cries : 
Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd 

her care. 
But to throw back at times her veiling 
hair. 

That old nurse stood beside her wondering 

Until her heart felt pity to the core 
At sight of sucli a dismal laboring. 

And so she kneeled, with her locks 
all hoar. 
And put her lean hands to the horrid 
thing : 
Three hours they labor'd at this travail 
sore ; 
At last thej^ felt the kernel of the grave, 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circum- 
stance ? 
Why linger at the j^awning tomb so 
long ? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 
The simple plaining of a minstrel's 
song ! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, 
For here, in truth, it doth not well 
belong 
To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 



KEATS 



397 



With duller steel than the Persean sword 
They cut away no formless monster's 
head, 
Butone, whose gentlenessdid wellaccord 
With deatli, as life. Tlie ancient 
harps have said. 
Love never dies, but lives, immortal 
Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead. 
Pale Isabella kiss"d it, and low moan'd 
'Twas love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not 
dethroned. 

In anxious secrecy they took it home. 

And then the prize was ail for Isabel : 
Siie calm'd its wild hair with a golden 
comb, 
And all around eacli eye's sepulchral 
cell 
Pointed eac^h fringed lash ; the smeared 
loam 
With tears, ascliillyasadrippiiig well, 
She drench'd away : — and still she 

comb'd, and kept 
Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and 
wept. 

Then in a silken scarf, sweet with the 
dews 
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous 
ooze 
Through the cold serpent ])ipe refresh- 
fully,— 
She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did 
choose 
A garden-pot, wherein sl)e laid it by 
And cover'd it witti mf)uld ;\nd. o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever 
wet. 

And she forgot the stars, tlie moon, and 

sun. 
And she forgot tiie blue above the trees, 
And slie forgot the dells where waters 

run, 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 
She had no knowledge when the day 

was done. 
And the new morn she saw not : but 

in peace 
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. 
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 

And so she ever fed it with thin tears. 
Whence thick, and green, and beauti- 
ful it grew. 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peprs 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 



Nurture besides, and life, from human 

fears. 
From the fast mouldering head there 

shut from view : 
So that tlie jewel, safely casketed. 
Came fortli, and in perfumed leatits 

spread. 

O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and 

smile ; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, 

heavily. 

And make a pale light in your cypress 

glooms, [tombs. 

Tinting with silver wan your marble 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 
From the deep throat of sad Mel- 



pomene 



Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 

And touch tlie strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and 

low ; 

For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead : She withers, like a 

pal m 
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

O leave the palm to wither by itself ; 
Let not quick Winter chill its dying 
hour !— 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 
Her brethren, notetl tiie continual 
shower 
From iier dead eves ; and many a curious 
elf, 
Among her kindred, wonder'd that 
such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown 

aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 

And, furthermore, her brethren won- 
der'd much 
Why she sat drooping by the Basil 
green, 
A nd wiiy it flourish'd, as bj' magic touch ; 
Greatly they wonder'd what the thing 
niiglit mean 
They could not surely give belief, that 
such 
A very nothing would have power to 
wean 
Her from her own fair youth, and 
pleasures gay, [''<.v- 

And even remembrance of her love's de- 



398 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlierefore they watcli'd a time when they 
might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they 
watcli'd in vain ; 
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 

And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 
And when she left, she hurried back, as 
swift 
As bird on wing to breast its eggs 
again ; 
And. patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her 
hair. 

Yet tliey contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, 
And to examine it in secret place : 

The thing was vile with green and livid 
spot. 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face ; 

The guerdon of their murder they had 
got. 
And so left Florence in a moment's 
space, 

Never to turn again. — Away they went. 

With blood upon their heads, to banish- 
ment. 

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a- 
way ! " 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die : 
Will die a death too lone and ineomjdete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil 
sweet. 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless 
things. 
Asking for her lost Basil amorously : 
And with melodious chuckle in the 
strings 
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes 
would cry 
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 
To ask him where her Basil was ; and 
wlij' 
'Twas hid from her : " For cruel 'tis," 

said she, 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 

Imijloring for her Basil to tlie last. 
No lieart was there in Florence but did 
mourn 
In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

Froni mouth to mouth through all the 
countrj' pass'd : 



Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty. 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from 
me ! " 1818. 1830. 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

St. AaNES" Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the 

frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingei-s, 

while he told 
His rosar)', and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, with- 
out a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while 
his prayer he saitli. 

His i^rayer he saith, tiiis patient, holy 

man 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from 

his knees. 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot. 

wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculi)tur'd dead, on each side, seem 

to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora- 

t'ries. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how thej^ niay aclie in icy 

hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little 

door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's 

golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and 

poor ; 
But no —already had his deathbell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and 

sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' 

sake to grieve. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the pre- 
lude soft ; 

And so it chanc'd, for many a door was 
wide. 

From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 
chide : [pride, 

The level chambei-s, ready with their 



KEATS 



399 



Were glowing to receive a thousand 
guests : 

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 

Star'd where upon their heads the cor- 
nice rests. 

With liair blown back, and wings put 
cross-wise on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
Witli plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The bi-ain, new stuflE'd, in youth, with 

triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish 

away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady 

there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that win- 
try day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly 

care. 
As she had heard old dames full many 
times declare. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of 

delight. 
And soft adorings from their loves re- 
ceive 
Upon tlie honey'd middle of the niglit 
If ceremonies due the}' did ariglit ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily 

white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re- 
quire 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all 
that they desire. 

Full of this whim was tlioughtful 
Madeline ; 

The music, yearning like a God in pain. 

She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes 
divine. 

Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
train 

Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 

Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 

And back retu'd ; not cool'd by high 
disdain. 

But she saw not : her heart was other- 
where : 

She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, tlie sweet- 
est of the year. 

Slie danc'd along with vague, regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 

and short : 



The hallow'd hour was near at hand : 
she sighs 

Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd 
resort 

Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 

'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 
scorn, 

Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort, 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un- 
shorn. 

And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 

moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart 

on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, 

and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious liours, 
That he might gaze and worship all 

unseen ; 
Percliance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in 

sooth such things have been. 

He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper 

tell: 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred 

swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous 

citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hoi'des. 
Hyena foemen,and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations Iiowl 
Against liis lineage : not one breast 

affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion fovil. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body 

and in soul. 

Ah, happy cliance! the aged creature 

came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, liid from the torch's 

flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus 

bland : 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his 

face. 
And grasp'd iiis fingers in her palsied 

hand. 
Saying, "Mercy. Porphyro! liie thee 

from tliis place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole 

blood-thirsty race ! 



400 



BRITISH POETS 



Get hence ! get hence ! tliere's dwarfish 

Hildebrand ; 
He had a fever kite, and in tlie fit 
He cursed tliee and thine, botli house 

and lantl : 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not 

a whit 
More tame for liis gray liairs — Alas me ! 

flit! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip 

dear, 
We're safe enough ; liere in this arm- 
chair sit, 
And tell me how" — •• Good Saints ! not 

liere, not here : 
" Follow me, cliild, or else these stones 

will be thy bier." 

He f olio w'd through alowl)^ arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 

plume ; 
And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a- 

day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlight 

room, 
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me wliere is Madeline," 

said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may 

see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 

piously." 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will nuu'der upon lioly days : 
Thou must hold water in a witcli's sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and 

Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me witli amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer 

plays 
This very night ; good angels her de- 
ceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle 
time to grieve." 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid 
moon , 

While Porphyro upon lier face doth look, 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Wlio keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle- 
book . 

As spectacled she .sits in chimney nook. 

But soon liis eyes grew brilliant, wlien 
she told 

His lady's jnirpose ; and he scarce could 
brook 



Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
ments cold. 

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends 
old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full- 
blown rose. 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained 

heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame 

start : 
•' A cruel man and impious thou art : 
Sweet lady, let her praj% and sleep, and 

drefim 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — 

I deem 
Tiiou canst not surely be the same that 
thou didst seem. 

"I will not harm her, by all saints I 

swear," 
Quoth Porphyro: " O may I ne'er find 

grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its 

last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian pas.sion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, witli horrid shout, my foemen's 

ears, 
And beard them, though tliey be more 

fang'd than wolves and bears." 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
soul "? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken church- 
yard thing. 

Whose passing-bell may ere the mid- 
night toll ; 

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 
evening, 

Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, 
doth slie bring 

A gentler speech from burning Por- 
phyro ; 

So woful. and of such deep sorrowing. 

That Angela gives promise she will do 

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 
or woe. 

Which was, to lead him. in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 

hide 
Him iji a closet, of such privacy 
Tliat he niiglit see her beauty unespied. 
And win ])erhaps tliat niglit a peerless 

bride, 



KEATS 



401 



While legion"d fairies pa.c'd the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held lier sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all tlie 
monstrous debt. 

"It shall be as thou wisliest," said tlie 

Dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored 

there 
Quickly on tliis feast-night : by the 

tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to 

spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering ti-ust my dizzy bead. 
Wait here, my child, witli patience ; 

kneel in prayer 
The while : Ah I thou must needs tlie 

lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among 

the dead." 

Ro saying, she hobbled oflf Avith busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly 

pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his 

ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim esfnal. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they 

gain 
The maiden's cliamber, silken, hushVl, 

and ciiaste ; 
Wliere Porphyro took covert, jjleas'd 

amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues 

in her brain. 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed 

maid. 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turn'd. and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphj-ro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she conies again, like ring- 
dove fray'd and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 

itd : 
She cfos'fi the door, she panted, all akin 
I'l! spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
\i' uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
Hut to her heart, her heart was voluble, 



Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale 

should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, 

in her dell. 

A casement high and triple arch'd there 

was, 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 

knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint 

device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 

wings ; 
And in the midst, 'niong thousand 

heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- 

ings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood 

of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry 

moon, 
And threw warm gules on Jladeline's 

fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace 

and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

prest. 
And on iier silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
Slie seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew 

faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 

mortal taint. 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 

frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by de- 
grees 
Her rich attire creejjs rustling to her 

knees ; 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 

sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the 
charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 

nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 

lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep ojj- 

press'd 



402 



BRITISH POETS 



Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 

away ; 
Flown, like a thouglit, until the nior- 

rovv-day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and 

pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart 

Payuims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from 

rain. 
As thougii a rose should shut, and be a 

bud again. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so en- 
tranced, 

Porphjao gazed upon her empty dress. 

And listened to her breatliing, if it 
chanced 

To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 

Which when he heard, tliat minute did 
he bless, 

And breath'd himself : then from the 
closet crept, 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 

And over tlie hush'd carpet, silent, 
stepped, 

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, 
lo ! — how fast she slept. 

Tlien by the bed-side, where the faded 
moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 

A table, and, half-auguish'd, threw 
tliereon 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
jet:- 

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 

The boisterous, midnight, festive cla- 
rion. 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard cla- 
rionet, 

Aflfray his ears, though but in dying 
tone : — 

The hall door shuts again, and all the 
noise is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 
der 'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought 

a heap 
Qf candied apple, quince, and plum, and 

gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy 
curd, [mon ; 

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinna- 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, ever}^ 
one, [banon. 

From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Le- 



Tliese delicates he heap'd with glowing 

hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreatlied silver : sumptuous they 

stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling tlie chilly room witli perfume 

liglit.— 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, 

awake ! 
Tliou art my heaven, and I thine 

eremite : 
Open thine ej'es, for meek St. Agnes' 

sake. 
Or I sliall drowse beside thee, so my 

soul dotii ache." 

Tluis whispering, his warm, unnerved 

arm 
Sank in her pillow. Sluided was her 

dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a mid- 
night charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 

gleam : 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed 
phantasies. 

Awakening up, betook her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous. — and, in chords that tend- 

erest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since 

mute. 
In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans 

mercy : " 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 

moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
denly 
Her blue atfrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptiu-ed stone. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful ciiange, that nigh 

expeird 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep 
At which fair Madeline began to wee]), 
And moan forth witless words with 

many a sigh ; [kee]> ; 

While still her gaze on Porpliyro would 
Who knelt, with joined hands and 

l)iteous e^^e, [dreamingly. 

Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 



KEATS 



403 



"Ah, P<)ri)'iyro ! " said she, "buteven 
now 

Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
ear, 

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 

And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
clear : 

How chang'd tliouart ! liow pallid, chill, 
and drear ! 

Give me tliat voice again, my Porphyrc), 

Tliose looks immortal, those complain- 
ings dear ! 

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 

For if tliou diest, my Love, I know not 
where to go." 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, lie arose. 
Ethereal, flusli'd, and like a throbbing 

star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep 

repose : 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet,— 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost 

wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp 

sleet 
Against tlie window-panes ; St. Agnes' 

moon hath set. 

'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw- 
blown sleet : 
" Tills is no dream, my bride, my 

Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and 

beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 

pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 

bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived 

thing ; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick un- 

pruned wing." 

"My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 

bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and 

vermeil dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my 

rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy 

nest 



Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou 
think'st well 

To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude in- 
fidel. 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery 

land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassaillers will never 

heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 

mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a 

liome for thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset with 

fears. 
For tliere were sleeping dragons all 

around, 
At glaring watch, perliaps, with ready 

spears — 
Down tlie wide stairs a darkling way 

tliey found. — 
In all the house was heard no human 

sovind. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by 

each door ; 
Tlie arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 

and hound, 
Flutter'd in tiie besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the 

gusty floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 

hall ; 
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they 

glide ; 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 

his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy 

slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn 

stones ; — 
Tlie key turns, and the door upon its 

hinges groans. 

And they are gone : ay. ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many 

a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade 

and form 



404 



BRITISH POETS 



Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
worm. 

Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the 
old 

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face 
deform ; 

The Beadsman, after thousand avestold. 

For aye unsought for slept among his 
ashes cold. 

January, 1819. 1830. 

THE EVE OF SAINT MARK 

A Fragment 

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell ; 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
That call'd the folks to evening prayer ; 
Tlie city streets were clean and fair 
From wholesome drencli of April rains ; 
And, on the western window panes, 
The chilly sunset faintly told 
Of unmatur'd green valleys cold, 
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, 
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, 
Of primroses by shelter'd rills, 
And daisies on the aguish hills. 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell : 
Tlie silent streets were crowded well 
With staid and pious companies. 
Warm from their fire-side orafries ; 
And moving, with demurest air, 
To even-song, and vesper praj'er. 
Each arched porch, and entry low. 
Was fiird with patient folk and flow. 
With whispers hush, and sliuffling feet. 
While play'd tlie organ loud and sweet. 

The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun, 
And Bertha had not yet half done 
A curious volume, patch'd and torn. 
That all day long, from earliest morn, 
Had taken captive her two eyes, 
Among its golden broideries ; 
Ferplex'd her with a thousand things. — 
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings. 
Martyrs in a fiery blaze. 
Azure saints and silver rays. 
Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
Candlesticks Jolin saw in Heaven, 
Tlie winged Lion of St. Mark, 
And the Covenantal Ark, 
With its many mysteries. 
Cherubim and golden mice. 

Bertha was a maiden fair. 
Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; 
From her fire-side she could see, 
Sidelong, its rich antiquity, 



Far as the Bishop's garden- wall : 
Where sycamores and elm-trees tall. 
Full-leav'd, the forest had outstript, 
By no sharp north-wind ever nipt. 
So shelter'd bj^ the mighty pile. 
Bertha arose, and read awhile, 
With forehead 'gainst the window-pane 
Again she try'd, and then again, 
Until the dusk eve left her dark 
Upon the legend of St. Mark. 
From plated lawn-frill, fine and thin, 
She lifted up lier soft warm chin. 
With aching neck and swimming eyes, 
And daz'd with saintly imageries. 

All was gloom, and silent all. 
Save now and then the still foot-fall 
Of one returning homewards late, 
Past the echoing minster-gate. 
The clamorous daws, that all the day 
Above tree-tops and towers play, 
Pair by pair liad gone to rest, 
Each in its ancient belfry nest, 
Where asleep they fall betimes. 
To music and the drowsy chimes. 

All was silent, all was gloom. 
Abroad and in the liomely room : 
Down she sat, poor cheated soul ; 
And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; 
Lean'd forward, with bright di'ooping 

hair 
And slant look, full against the glare. 
Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 
HoverVl about, a giant size. 
On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, 
The parrot's cage, and panel square ; 
And the warm angled winter-screen, 
On which were manj^ monsters seen, 
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice, 
And legless birds of Paradise, 
Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 
And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 
Untir'd she read, her shadow still 
Glower'd about, as it would fill 
Tlie room with wildest forms and shades. 
As though some ghostly queen of spades 
Had come to mock behind her back. 
And dance, and ruffle her garments 

black. 
Untir'd she read the legend page, 
Of holy Mark, from youth to age. 
On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 
Rejoicing for his many pains. 
Sometimes the learned eremite, 
Witli golden star, or dagger bright, 
Referr'd to pious poesies 
Written in smallest crow-quill size 
Beneath the text : and thus the rliyme 



KEATS 



405 



Was parcerd out from time to time : 

" Als writeth lie of swevens, 

]\Ieii han before they wake in bliss, 
VVhaniie that hir friendes thinke him 

bound 
In crimped shroude faiTe under grounde : 
And liow a litling childe mote be 
Asr.iiit er its nativitie. 
Gif that the modre (God lier blesse !) 
Kepen in solitarinesse. 
And kissen devout the lioly croce. 
Of Goddes love, and Satlian's force, — 
He writith ; and tliin^es many mo 
Of swiche thinges I may not show. 
Bot I must tellen verilie 
Somdel of Sainte Cicilie. 
And chiefly what he auctoretlie 
Of Sainte Markis life and dethe : " 

At length her constant eyelids come 
Upon the fervent martyrdom ; 
Then lastly to his liolv shrine, 
Exalt amid the tapers' sliine 
At Venice. — 
January and September, IS19. 1848. 

ODE ON INDOLENCE 

" They toil not, neither do they spin." 

One morn before me were three figures 
seen , 
With bowed necks, and joined hands, 
side-faced ; 
And one behind the other stepp'd serene, 
In placid sandals, and in white robes 
graced ; 
They pass . iike figures on a marble iirn , 
When snifted round to see tlie other 
side ; 
They came again ; as when the urn 
once more 
Is shifted round, the first seen shades 
return ; 
And they were sti-ange to me, as may 
betide 
With vases, to one deep in Phidian 
lore. 

How is it Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? 
How c^time ye muffled in so hush a 
mask ? 
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 
To steal away, and leave without a 
task 
My idle days ? Ripe was tlie drowsy 
hour ; 
The blissful cloud of summer-indo 
lence 



Benumbed my eyes ; my pulse grew 
less and less ; 
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath 
no flower : 
O why did ye not melt, and leave my 
sense 
Unhaunted quite of all but — notii- 
ingness ? 

A third time passed the}' by, and, pass- 
ing, turn'd 
Each one the face a moment whiles to 
me ; 
Tlien faded, and to follow them Iburn'd 
And ach'd for wings, because I knew 
the three ; 
Tiie first was a fair Maid, and Love her 
name ; 
Tlie second was Ambition, pale of 
clieek. 
And ever watchful with fatigued 
eye; 
The last, whom I love more, the more of 
blame 
Is lieap'd upon her, maiden most un- 
meek, — 
I knew to be my demon Poesy. 

They faded, and forsooth ! I wanted 
wings : 
O folly ! Wiiat is Love ? and wliere is 
it? 
And for tliat poor Ambition ! it springs 
From a man's little heart's short fever- 
fit : 
For Poes}" ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy 
noons. 
And evenings steep'd in honied in- 
dolence : 
O. for an age so sheltered from annoy. 
That I may never know how change 
the moons. 
Or hear the voice of busy common- 
sense ! 

And once more came they by ; — alas ! 
wherefore ? 
My sleep had been enibroider'd with 
dim dreams ; 
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled 
o'er 
With flovi'ers. and stirring shades, and 
baffled beams : [fell. 

The mom was clouded, but no shower 
Tho' in lier lids hung the sweet tears 
of May ; 
The open casement press'd a new- 
leav'd vine, 



4o6 



BRITISH POETS 



Let in the budding warmth and thros- 
tle's lay ; 
O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid fare- 
well ! 
Upon your skirts had fallen no tears 
of mine. 

So, 3^e three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot 
raise 
My head cool-bedded in the flowery 
grass ; 
For I would not be dieted with praise, 

A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
Fade softly from my eyes, and be once 
more 
In masque-like Figures on the dreamy 
urn ; 
Farewell ! I 3^et have visions for the 
niglit. 
And for tlie day faint visions there is 
store : 
Vanisli, ye Pliantoms ! from my 
idle spright. 
Into the clouds, and never more re- 
turn ! March, IS 10. 1848, 

ODE 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth. 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have }'e souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new? 
Yes. and those of heaven comnnxne 
Witli the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With tlie noise of fountains wond'rous. 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one anotlier, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on eai'th is not ; 
Where the nigJitingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And tlie souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your otlier souls are jojaiig. 
Never sUimber'd. never cloying. 
Here, yonr earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 



Of tlieir sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye iiave souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

March 26, 1819. 1820. 

ODE TO PSYCHE 

Goddess ! hear these tuneless num- 

bers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remem- 
brance dear. 
And pardon tliat thy secrets should be 
sung 
Even into thine own soft-conched ear ; 
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
The winged Psyche with awaken'd 
eyes ? 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly. 
And, on the sudden, fainting with 

surprise, [side 

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by 
In deepest grass, beneath the whis- 
pering roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where 
there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fra- 
grant-eyed. 
Blue, silver-wliite, and budded Tj'rian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded 
grass ; 
Their arms embraced, and their pin- 
ions too ; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not 
bade adieu. 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 

The winged boy I knew ; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy 
dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

O latest born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd 

star, [sky ; 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the 

Fairer than these, though temple thou 

hast none. 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 



' v^^ 



'J 



KEATS 



407 



Nor virgin-clioir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midniglit liours ; 

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense 

sweet 

Fioni chain-swung censer teeming : 

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

brightest ! though too late for antique 

vows. 
Too, too late for the fond believing 
lyre. 
When holy were the haunted forest 
boughs. 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 
Yet even in these days so far retir'd 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
Fluttering among the faint Olymp- 
ians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let me be tiiyclioir, and make a moan 

Upon the midnight hours : 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy in- 
cense sweet 
From swinged censer teeming ; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy 
heat 
Of pale-mouth'd jirophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be tliy priest, and build a fane 
In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Wliere hranclied tliougjits, new grown 
with pleasant pain. 
Instead of pines shall murmur in the 
wind : 
Far, far around shall those dark-clusterVl 
trees 
Fledge the vvild-ridged mountains 
steep by steep : 
And there i)y zephyrs, streams, and 
birds, and bees. 
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lullVlto 
sleep ; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreatli'd trellis of a working 
brain. 
With buds, and bells, and stars with- 
ovit a name. 
With all the gardener Fiincy e'er could 
feign, 
Who breeding flowers, will never breed 
the same : [ligl't 

And there shall be for thee all soft de- 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A briglit torch, and a casement ope at 
night. 
To let the warm Love in ! 

April, 1819. 1820. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 
Thou foster-child of silence and slow 
time. 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus ex- 
press 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
riiyme : 
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about 
thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of botli. 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? What 

maidens lotli ? 
What mad pui'suit ? What struggle to 
escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What 
wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodi es are sweet, but those un- 

Ar e swee ter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
pTay~on ; 
Not to tliQ sensual ear, but, more en- 
dear'd , 
Pipe to tlie spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou 
canst not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
bare ; 
Bold Lo ver ^ never, never can st tliQii 
kiss 
Thougii winning near the goal — yet, do 
not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, thouglithou hast not 
thy bliss. 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be 
fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot 
shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happ}^ happy 
love ! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever 
young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 
That leaves a hear t high-sorrowful and 
cloy^3^ 
A burning forehead , and a parching 
tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
To what green altar, O mysterious 
priest, 



4o8 



BRITISH POETS 



Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the 
skies, 
And all lier silken flanks with garlands 
dressed ? 
What little town by river or sea shore. 
Or mountain-built with peaceful cit- 
adel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious 
morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for ever- 
more 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- 
turn. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with 
brede 
Of marble men and maidens over 
wrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden 
weed ; 
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation 
waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
woe 
Than ours, a frien<l to man, to vvliom 
thou say'st, 
" Beauty is truth, truth beauty, " — 
that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need 
to know. 

1S19. January, 1820. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numb- 
ness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk, ' 
Or emptied some dull opiate to tlie drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards 
had sunk : 
'Tis not througii envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thine happi- 
ness. — 
That thou, light winged Dryad of 
the trees. 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows 
numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated 
ease. 

_ 0, for a dr aught of vintage ! that liath 

beefr — [eartli, 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved 



Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
Dance, and Provengal song, and sun- 
burnt mirth ! 

for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 

crene. 
With beaded bubbles winking at tiie 
brim. 

And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the 
world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the 
forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What tliou among the leaves liast 
never known, 
Tlie weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, wliere men sit and hear each 
otlier groan ; 
Where jialsy sliakes a few, sad, last gray 
hairs, 
Where youtii grows pale, and spectre- 
tliin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of 
sorrow 

And leaden-eyed despairs, 
Where Beauty cannot keep her 
lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond 
to-morrow. 

A>vTiy ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
y Not cliarioted by Bacchus and his 

pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Thougli the dull brain perplexes and 
retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
throne. 
Cluster'd around by all her starry 
Fays; 

But here there is no ligiit. 
Save what from heaven is with tlie 
breezes blown 
Tlirough verdurous glooms and 
winding mossy ways. 

1 cannot see what flowers are at my 

feet, 
Nor wliat soft incense hangs upon the 
bouglis. 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 
sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month 
endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
wild ; 



KEATS 



409 



White hawthorn, and the pastoral 
eglantine ; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in 
leaves ; 

And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on 
summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love witli easeful 
Deatli, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused 
rhyme. 
To take into the air my quiet breatli ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no 
pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy 
soul abroad 

In sucli an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have 
ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
Bird ! 
No hungry generations tread tliee 
down : 
The voice I hear this passing night was 
heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown; 
Perhaps the self -same song that found a 
path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien 
corn : 

The same tiiat oft-times liatli 
Charm'd magic casements, opening 
on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands for- 
lorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole 
self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! tliy plaintive antlieni 
fades 
Past the near meadows, over tlie still 
stream, [deep 

Up the hill-side ; and now "tis buried 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music : — Do I wake or 
sleep? May, 1819. July, 1819. 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY 

No, no. go not to Lethe, neither twist 
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poi- 
sonous wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be ki.ss'd 
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proser- 
pine ; 
Make not-your rosary of yew-berries. 
Nor let the beetle, nor the deatli-moth 
be 
Your mournful Psyclie, nor the 
downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries : 
For .sliade to shade will come too 
drowsily. 
And drown tiie wakeful anguish of 
the soul. 

But wlien the melancholy fit shall fall 
Sudden from heaven like a weeping 
cloud, 
Tliat fosters the droop-headed flowers 
all. 
And hides the green hill in an April 
shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand- 
wave. 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if tliy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Emprison her soft hand, and let her 
rave. 
And feed deep, deep upon her peer- 
less eyes. 

She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that 
must die ; 
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu; and acliing Pleasure nigh. 
Turning to poison while the bee- 
mouth sips : 
Ay. in the very temple of Delight 
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran 
shrine. 
Though seen ofnonesavehimwho.se 
strenuous tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate 
fine : 
His .soul shall taste tlie sadness of her 
might, 
And be among her cloudy ti'ophies 
hung. ISIO. 1820. 

TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing 



4IO 



BRITISH POETS 



Conspiring with hitn how to load and 
bless 
With fruit tlie vines that round the 
thatch-eves run ; 
To bend with apples tlie nioss'd cottage- 
trees. 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to tlie 
core ; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the 
hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding 
more. 
And still more, later flowers for the 

bees, 
Until they think warm days will never 
cease. 
For Summer lias o'er-brimm'd their 
clammy cells. 

Wlio hatli not .seen thee oft amid thy 
store ? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
Thy liair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
Drows'd witli the fume of poppies, 
wliile thy liook 
Spares the next swath and all its 
twined flowers : 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost 
keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings lioui's 
bj^ hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
where ai'e they ? 
Tliink not of them, thou hast thy mu- 
sic too. — 
While barred clouds bloom tlie soft- 
dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with 
ros}" hvie ; 
Tlien in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the liglit wind lives or 
dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with 
treble soft [croft ; 

The I'ed-breast whistles from agarden- 
And gathering swallows twitter in 
tlie skies. 

September, ISIO. 1820. 



HYPERION 

A FRAGMENT 

BOOK I„ 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
Far sunken from the healthy breath of 

morn. 
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one 

star. 
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
Still as the silence round about liis lair ; 
Forest on forest liung about his liead 
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was 

there. 
Not so mucli life as on a summer's day 
Robs not one light seed fi'om the 

featlier'd grass. 
But where the dead leaf fell, there did 

it rest. 
A stream went voiceless b\% still dead- 
ened more 
By reason of his fallen divinity 
Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her 

reel Is 
Press'd her cold finger clo.ser to Iier lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot- 
marks went. 
No further than to where his feet had 

stray 'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden 

ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless. 

dead. 
Unsceptred ; and liis realniless eyes 

were closed ; 
While his bow'd liead seem'd list'ning 

to the Eartli, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort 

yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him 
from his place ; 

But there came one, who with a kindred 
hand 

Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bend- 
ing low 

With reverence, though to one who knew 
it not. 

She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 

By her in stature the tall Amazon 

Had stood a pigmj^'s lieight : she would 
have ta'en 

Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 

Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wlieel. 

Her face was large as that of Memphian 
spliinx, 

Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, 



KEATS 



411 



When sages look'd to Egypt for their 

lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that 

face : 
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's 

self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard, 
As if calamit)' had but begun : 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen 

rear 
Was with its stored tliunder laboring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching 

spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just 

there, 
Thougli an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 
Tlie other upon Saturn's bended neck 
Slie laid, and to tlie level of liis ear 
Leaning witli parted lips, some words 

she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 
Some mourning words, whicli in our 

feeble tongue 
Would come in these like accents ; O 

how frail 
To that large utterance of tlie early 

Gods ! 
"Saturn, look up! — tliough wherefore, 

poor old King ? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot say, ' O wherefore sleepest 

tliou?' feartli 

For heaven is parted from thee, and the 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a 

God; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all 

the air 
Is emptied of tliine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- 
mand, 
Rumbles rekictant o'er our fallen house : 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised 

liands 
Scorches and burns our once serene 

domain. 
O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous 

trutli. 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breatlie. 
Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, wliy 

did I 
Thus violate th}^ slumbrous solitude? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I 

weep." 



As when, upon a tranced summer- 
night, 
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty 

woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the 

earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without 

a stir, 
Save froni one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies 

off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
So came these words and went ; tlie 

while in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to 

the ground. 
Just where her falling hair might be 

outspi'ead 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had 

shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postui-ed mo- 
tionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cav- 
ern ; 
The frozen God still couchant on tlie 

earth , 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom 

gone. 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the 

place. 
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and 

then spake. 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his 

beard 
Shook liorrid with such aspen-malady : 
" O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Thea. I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the 

voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if tliis wrinkling 

brow. 
Naked and bare of its great diadem. 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who 

had power 
To make me desolate? wlience came the 

strength ? 
How was it nurtur'd to such bursting 

forth. 
While Fate seem'd strangled in my 

nervous grasp ? 
But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale, 



412 



BRITISH POETS 



Of admuiiitiuns to the winds and seas, 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvest- 
ing. 
And all those acts wliich Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
Away from my own bosom : I have left 
My strong identity, my i-eal self. 
Somewhere between the throne, and 

wiieie I sit 
Here on tliis spot of earth. Search, 

Then, search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne. and sphere them 

round 
Upon all space : space starr'd. and lorn 

of light ; 
Space region'd with life-air ; and barren 

void ; 
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. — 
Search. Thea, search ! and tell me, if 

thou seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it 

must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be 

King. 
Yes, there nuist be a golden victory ; 
Tliere must be Gods thrown down, and 

trumpets blown 
Of triumph calm, and liymns of festival 
Upon tlie gold clouds metroiM)litan. 
Voices of soft i)roclaini, and silver stir 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there 

shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the sur- 
prise 
Of the sky-children ; I will give com- 
mand : 
Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? "' 

This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
And made his liands to struggle in the air. 
His Druid locks to sliake and ooze with 

sweat. 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard nut Theas sobbing 

deep ; 
A little time, and then again hesnatch'd 
Utterance thus. — " But cannot I create? 
Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth 
Another world, another universe. 
To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
Wliere is another chaos? Where?'" — 

That word [quake 

Found way unto Olympus, and made 
The rebel three. — Tliea was startled up, 
And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
As thus slie quick-voic'd spake, yet full 

of awe. 



" This cheers our fallen house : come 
to our friends, 

Saturn ! come away, and give them 

heart : 

1 know the covert, for thence came I 

hither." 
Thus brief ; then with beseeching eyes 

she went 
AVith backward footing througli the 

shade a space : 
He foUow'd, and siie turn'd to lead the 

way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like 

the mist 
Which eagles cleave upmounting from 

their nest. 

Meanwhile^ in otlier realms big tears 

were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like 

woe, 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of 

scribe : 
The Titajis fierce, self-hid, or pi-i.son- 

bound. 
( Iroan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn "s 

voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood 

.still kept 
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty ; — 
Blazing Hyperion on liis orbed fire 
Still sat, .still snuflf'd the incense, teeming 

up 
From man to the sun's God ; yet 

unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Frigiit and perplex, so also shuddered 

he— 
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated 

screech. 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon tlie first toll of his passing-bell. 
Or ])ropliesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
But liorrors. portion'd to a giant nerve. 
Oft made Hj'perion ache. His palace 

bright 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed 

obelisks, 
Glar'd a blood-red through all its thou- 
sand courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagle's 

wings. 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering 

men, [were heard. 

Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds 



KEATS 



413 



Not lieard before by Gods or wondering 

men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy 

wreaths 
Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred 

hills, 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick : 
And so, when harbor'd in the sleep}^ 

west. 
After the full completion of fair day, — 
For rest divine upon exalted couch 
And slumber in the arms of melody, 
He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
While far within each aisle and deep 

recess. 
His winged minions in close clusters 

stood, 
Amaz'd and full of fear : like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting 

troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements 

and towers. 
Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy 

trance. 
Went step for step with Tliea through 

the woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the 

west ; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew 

ope 
In smootiiest silence, save what solemn 

tubes. 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of 

sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed 

melodies ; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shai^e. 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 
That inlet to severe magniticrence 
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 

His flaming robes streani'd out beyond 
his heels. 

And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire. 

That scar'd away the meek ethereal 
Hoius 

And made their dove-wings tremble. 
On he flared. 

From stately nave to nave, from vault 
to vault, 

Through bowers of fragrant and en- 
wreathed light. 

And diamond-paved lustrous long ar- 
cades, 

Until he reach'd the great main cupola ; 



There standing fierce beneatli. he 

stamped his foot. 
And from the basements deep to the high 

towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had 

ceas'd, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike 

curb. 
To this result : " O dreams of day and 

night ! 
O monstrous f(n-ms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 

lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded 

pools ! 
Why do I know ye? why have I seen 

ye ? why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraugiit 
To see and to beholtl these horrors new? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest. 
This cradle of my glory, tliis soft clime. 
This calm luxuriance of Idissful light. 
These crystalline pavilions, and jmre 

fanes. 
Of all 1113- lucent empire ? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any iiaunt of mine. 
The blaze, the splendor, and the sym- 

metr}% 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and 

dafkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose. 
The shady visions come to domineer. 
Insult, and blind, and stifle up mj' 

pomj). — 
Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 
Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
I will advance a terrible right arm 
Shall scare tiiat infant thunderer, rebel 

Jove, 
And bid old Saturn take his throne 

again." — 
He spake, and ceas'd. tlie while a heavier 

threat 
Held struggle with his throat but came 

not forth : 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more tiiev call out 

"Hush!" 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms 

pale 
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and 

cold ; 
And from the mirror'd level where he 

stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 

crown, 



414 



BRITISH POETS 



Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck 

couvuls'd 
From over-strained might. Releas'd,he 

fled 
To tlie eastern gates, and full six dewy 

liours 
Before the dawn in season due should 

bhish. 
He breatli'd fierce breath against the 

sleep}" portals. 
Clear' d tliem of heavy vapors, burst 

them wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chillj^ streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens 

til rough. 
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds : 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, 

and hid, 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting 

colure, 
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the 

muffling dark 
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir 

deep 
Up to the zenith, — liieroglyphics old. 
Which sages and keen-ej^ed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with laboring 

thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries : 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants 

huge 
Of stone, or marble swart ; their import 

gone. 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two 

wings this orb 
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent 

wings. 
Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
And now. from forth the gloom their 

plumes immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded 

were ; 
Wliile still the dazzling globe maintain'd 

eclipse. 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain 

took throne 
And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He miglit not : — No, though a primeval 

God : 
The sacred seasons might not be 

disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 
Those silver wings expanded sisterly. 
Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 



Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with 

new woes, 
Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night. 
He stretch'd himself in grief and radi- 
ance faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its 

stars 
Look'd down on liim with pity, and the 

voice 
Of Coelus, from the universal space, 
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his 

ear. 
" O brightest of my children dear, eartli- 

born 
And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 
All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating ; at whose joy 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures 

soft, 
I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and 

whence ; 
And at the fruits thereof what shapes 

they be. 
Distinct, and visible ; sj^mbols divine. 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal 

space ; 
Of these new-form'd art thou, oh 

brightest child ! 
Of these, thy brethren and the God- 
desses ! 
There is sad feud among ye, and rebel- 
lion 
Of son against liis sire. I saw him fall, 
I saw my first-born tumbled from his 

throne ! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his 

voice 
Found way from forth the thunders 

round his head ! 
Pale wox I and in vapors hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague 

fear there is : 
For I have seen my sons most unlike 

Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturb'd. 
Unruffled, like liigh Gods, ye liv'd and 

ruled : 
Now I behold in you fear, hope, and 

wrath ; 
Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneatli. 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O 

Son! 



KEATS 



415 



Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and 

fall ! 
Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 
As thou canst move about, an evident 

God ; 
And canst oppose to each malignant liour 
Ethereal presence : — -I am but a voice ; 
M}' life is but the life of winds and tides. 
No more than winds and tides can I 

avail : — 
But thou canst. ^Be thou tlierefore in 

the van 
or circumstance ; yea, .seize tlie arrow's 

barb 
Before the tense string iniymur. — To 

tlie earth ! 
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and 

his woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy 

bright sun. 
And of thy seasons be a careful 

nurse." — 
Ere half tliis region-whisper liad come 

down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
Lifted Ills curved lids, and kept them 

wide 
Until it ceas'd ; and still he kept them 

wide : 
And still they were the same bright, 

patient stars. 
Tlien with a slow incline of his broad 

breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore. 
And plung'd all noiseless into the deep 

night. 

BOOK II 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide 

wings 
Hyperion slid into the rustled air. 
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad 

j)lace 
Wliere Cybele and the bruised Titans 

mouru'd. 
It was a den where no insulting liglit 
Could glimmer on their tears ; where 

tlieir own groans 
They felt, but heard not, for tlie solid 

roar 
Of thunderous watei'falls and torrents 

hoarse, 
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain 

wliere. 
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks 

that seem'd 
Ever as if just rising fx"om a sleep. 



Forehead to forehead held their mon- 
strous horns ; 

And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 

Made a lit roofing to this nest of woe. 

Instead of thrones, hard flint the}' sat 
upon, 

Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 

Stubborn'd with iron. All were not as- 
sembled : 

Some chain'd in torture, and some wan- 
dering. 

Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 

With many more, the brawniest in as- 
sault. 

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 

Dungeou'd in opaque element, to keep 

Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and 
all their limbs 

Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt 
and screvv'd ; 

Without a motion, save of their big 
hearts 

Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd 

With sanguine feverous boiling gurge 
of pulse. 

Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 

Far from her moon had Phoebe wan- 
dered ; 

And many else were free to roam abroad. 

But for the main, here found they covert 
drear. 

Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 

Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal 
cirque 

Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 

When the chill i-ain begins at shut of 
eve. 

In dull November, and their chancel 
vault, 

Tlie Heaven itself, is blinded throughout 
night. 

Each one kept shroud, nor to his neigh- 
bor gave 

Or word, or look, or action of despair. 

Cretis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 

Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 

Toid of his rage, ere he thus sank and 
pined. 

lapetus another ; in his grasp, 

A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed 
tongue 

Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its 
uncurl'd length 

Dead ; and because the creature could 
not spit 

Its poison in the eyes of conquering 
Jove. [most. 

Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin upper- 



4i6 



BRITISH POETS 



As thougli in pain ; for still upon the 

flint 
He ground severe his skull, with open 

mouth 
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest 

him 
Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
Who cost her mother Tellus keener 

pangs. 
Though feminine, than any of her sons : 
More thought than woe was in her dusky 

face,' 
For she was prophesying of her glory ; 
And in her wide imagination stood 
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival 

fanes. . 
By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans, 
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
Shed from the broadest of lier elephants. 
Above her, on a crag's uneasy sbelve. 
Upon his elbow rais'd. all prostrate else. 
Sliadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and 

mild 
As grazing ox unworried in the niea:ls ; 
Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, 

wroth, 
He meditated, plotted, and even now 
Was hurling mountains in that second 

war. 
Not long delay'd, that .scar'd the younger 

Gods 
To hidetliemselvesin forms of beast and 

bird. 
Nor far hence Atlas ; and beside him 

prone 
•Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neigh- 

bor'd close 
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
In midst of all lay Tliemis. at the feet 
Of Ops the qvieen all clouded round 

from sight ; 
No shape distinguishable, more than 

when 
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with 

the clouds : 
And many else whose names mav not be 

told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward 

spread , 
Who shall delay her fiiglit ? And she 

must chant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had 

climb'd [depth 

With damp and slippery footing from a 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
Their heads appear'd, and up their 

statui-e grew 



Till on the level height their steps found 

ease : 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling 

arms 
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's 

face : 
Tliere saw she direst strife ; the supreme 

God 
At war with all the frailty of grief, 
Of rage, of fear, anxietj'. revenge. 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all 

despair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain ; 

for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him 

pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen 

tribe. 

As with us mortal men, the laden 

heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever 'd more, 
Wlien it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the .same 

bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst, 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among 

tlie rest, 
But that lie met Enceladus's eye, 
Whose mightiness, and awe of liim, at 

once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he 

shouted, 
"Titans, behold your God !" at which 

some groan'd ; 
Some started on their feet ; some also 

shouted ; 
Some wept, some wail'd, all b' 'd with 

reverence ; 
And Ops, upifting her black folded veil, 
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her 

forehead wan. 
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow 

eyes. 
There is a roaring in tlie bleak-grown 

pi Ties 
When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a 

noise 
Among immortals when a God gives 

sign. 
With hushing finger, how he means to 

load 
His tongue with the full weight of uttei'- 

less thought. 
With thunder, and with music, and with 

pomp : 



I 



KEATS 



417 



Such noise is like tlie roar of V)leak- 
grown pines ; 

Which, when it ceases in this mount- 
ain'd world, 

No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing 
here, 

Among these fallen, Saturn's voice there- 
from 

Grew up like organ, that begins anew 

Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt 
short. 

Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 

Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad 
breast. 

Which is its own great judge and 
searcher out, 

Can I find reason why ye should be tlius : 

Not in the legends of the first of days, 

Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 

Wiiich starry Uranus with finger bright 

Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when 
the waves 

Low-ebb'd still liid it up in shallow 
gloom ; — 

And the wliich book ye know I ever kept 

For my firm-based footstool: — Ah, in- 
firm ! 

Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 

Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 

At war, at pea(",e, or inter-quarrelling 

One against one, or two. or three, or all 

Each several one against the other tliree. 

As fire with air loud warring when rain- 
floods 

Drown both, and press them both against 
earth's face. 

Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple 
wrath 

Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that 
strife. 

Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read 
it deep. 

Can I find reason wh}^ ye should be thus ; 

No, no-where can unriddle, though I 
search. — 

And pore on Nature's universal scroll 

Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 

The first-born of all shap'd and palpable 
Gods, 

Should cower beneath what, in com- 
parison. 

Is untremendous might. Yet ye are 
here, 

O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, 
ye are here ! 

O Titans, shall I say ' Arise ! ' — Ye groan ; 

Shall I say ' Crouch ! ' — Ye groan. 
What can I then ? 

O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
27 



What can I ! Tell me, all ye brethren 

Gods, 
How we can war, how engine our great 

wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's 

ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content 
Which comes of thought and musing ; 

give us help ! " 

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the 

Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian 

grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades. 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 
In murmurs, which his first-endeavor- 
ing tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far foamed 

sands. 
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, 

passion-stung. 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your 

agonies ! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring 

proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to 

stoop ; 
And in tlie proof much comfort will 

I give. 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
We fall by course of Nature's law, not 

force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, 

thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
But for this reason, that thou art the 

King. 
And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
Through which I wandered to eternal 

truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of 

powers. 
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be ; 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Light, the first fruits of that intestine 

broil. 
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous 

ends 
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour 

came. 
And with it light, and light, engender- 
ing 



4i8 



BRITISH POETS 



Upon its own producer, forthwith 

touch'd 
The wlioie enormous matter into life. 
Upon that very liouv. our parentage. 
Tlie Heavens and tlie Earth, were mani- 
fest : 
Then thou first-born, and we the giant- 
race. 
Found ourselves ruling new and beau- 
teous realms. 
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 

'tis pain : 
O folly ! for to bear nl\ naked truths, 
And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark 

well ! 
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer 

far 
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though 

once chiefs ; 
And as we show beyond that Heaven 

and Earth 
In form 'and shape compact and beau- 
tiful. 
In will, in action free, companionship. 
And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
So on ourlieels a fresh perfection treads, 
A power more strong in beauty, born 

of us 
And fated to excel us. as we pass 
In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 
Tliereby more conquer'd, than by us the 

rule 
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull 

soil 
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath 

fed. 
And feedeth still, more comely than 

itself ? 
Can it denj' the chiefdom of green 

groves ? 
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
Because itcooeth, and hath snowy wings 
To wander wlierewitlial and finditsjoj's? 
We are such forest-trees, and our fair 

bovighs 
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
But eagles golden-feather'd, who do 

tower 
Above us in their beauty, and inust reign 
In right thereof ; for 'tis tlie eternal law 
That first in beauty sliould be first in 

might : 
Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
Have ye beheld the young God of the 

Seas. 
My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 
Have 3'e beheld his cliariot, foam'd along 



By noble winged creatures he hath 

made ? 
I saw him on the calmed waters .scud, 
With sucli a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
Tliat it enforc'd me to bid sad farewell 
To all mj' empire: farewell sad I took. 
And liither came, to see how dolorous 

fate 
Had wrought upon ye ; and liovv I might 

best 
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Receive the trutli, and let it be your 

balm.." 

Whether through poz'd conviction, or 

disdain. 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought 

can tell? 
But so it was, none answer'd for a 

space, 
Save one whom none regarded. Cly- 

mene ; 
And yet she answer'd not, onlj' com- 

plain'd, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking 

mild. 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" O Father, I am here tlie simplest 

voice. 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
And this thing woe ci'ept in among our 

hearts. 
There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
I would not bode of evil, if I tlioujiiit 
So weak a creature could turn off the help 
Wliicli bj' just right should come of 

mighty Gods ; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of what I heard, and how it made me 

weep. 
And know that we had parted from all 

hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore. 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from 

a land 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and 

flowers. 
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 
Too fvill of joy and soft delicious 

warmth ; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach tliat solitude 
Witli songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed 

shell 
And murmur'd into it, and made me- 
lody— 
O melody no more ! for while I sang, 



KEATS 



419 



And with poor skill let pass into the 
breeze 

The dull sliell's echo, from a bowery 
strand 

Just opposite, an island of the sea. 

There came enchantment with the shift- 
ing wind. 

That did both drown and keep alive my 
ears. 

I threw my shell away upon the sand. 

And a wave fill'dit, as my sense was fill'd 

With that new blissful golden melody. 

A living death was in each gush of 
sounds, 

Each faiuilj' of rapturous hurried notes. 

That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 

Like pearl beads dropping sudden from 
their string : 

And then anotlier, then another strain. 

Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 

With inusic wing'd instead of silent 
plumes. 

To hover I'ound my head, and make me 
sick 

Of joy and grief at once. Grief over- 
came, 

And I was stopping up my frantic ears. 

When, past all hindrance of my trem- 
bling hands. 

A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all 
tune. 

And still it cried, ' Apollo ! young 
Apollo ! 

The morning-briglit Apollo ! young 
Apollo ! ' 

I fled, it follow'd me, and cried 
' Apollo ! ' 

O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 

Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst 
thou felt. 

Ye would not call this too indulged 
tongue 

Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be 
heard." 

So far her voice flow'd on, like timo- 
rous brook 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it 

met. 
And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming 

voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath: 
Tlie ponderous syllables, like sullen 

waves 

In the half glutted hollows of reef-rocks. 

Came booming thus, while still upon 

his arm [contempt. 

He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme 



" Or shall we listen to the over-wise, 
Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
That rebel Jove's whole armoiy were 

spent. 
Not world on world upon these shoulders 

piled. 
Could agonize me more than bab3'-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy 

Titans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
Dost thou forget, sham Monarcli of tlie 

Waves. 
Thy scalding in the seas? What, have 

I rous'd 
Your spleens with so few simple words 

as these ? 
O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
O joy ! ft)r now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide glaring for revenge ! ''—As this he 

said, 
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus : 
" Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how 

to burn. 
And purge the etlier of our enemies ; 
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of 

fire. 
And singe away the swollen clouds of 

Jove. 
Stifling tliat puny essence in its tent. 
O let him feel tlie evil he hath done ; 
For though I sc(jrn Ocean us's loi-e. 
IMuch pain have I for more than loss of 

realms : 
The days of peace and slumberous calm 

are fled ; 
Those days, all innocent of scathing war. 
When all the fair Existences of heaven 
Came open-ej'ed to guess what we would 

speak : — 
That was before our brows were taught 

to frown. 
Before our lips knew else but solemn 

sounds ; 
That was before we knew the winged 

thing, 
Victor}-, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undis- 

graced — 
Hj'^perion, lo ! his radiance is here I " 

All ej'es were on Enceladus's face. 
And tliey beheld, while still Hyperion's 

name 
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 



420 



BRITISH POETS 



A pallid gleam across his features stem : 
Not savage, for he saw full manj^ a God 
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon 

them all, 
And in each face he saw a gleam of 

light, 
But splendider in Saturn s, whose hoar 

locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a 

keel 
When the jjrow sweeps into a midnight 

cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remain'd. 
Till suddenly a splendor, like tlie morn. 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
All the sad spaces of oblivion, 
And every gulf, and every chasm okl, 
And every height, and every sullen 

depth. 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented 

streams : 
And all the everlasting cataracts. 
And all tlie headlong torrents far and 

near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge 

shade. 
Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
It was Hyperion— a granite peak 
His bright feet touch'd, and there he 

stay'd to view 
The misery/ liis brilliance had betray'd 
To the most Iiateful seeing of itself. 
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, 
Regal his sliape majestic, a vast shade 
In midst of his own brightness, like tlie 

bulk 
Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
To one wlio travels from the dusking 

East: 
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Mem- 
non's harp [tive 
He utter'd, wliile his liands contempla- 
He press'd together, and in silence 

stood. 
Despondence seiz'd again the fallen Gods 
At sight of the dejected King of Day. 
And many hid their" faces from the 

liglit : 
But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
Among the brotlierhood ; and, at their 

glare. 
Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together 

strode 
To where lie towei'ed on his eminence. 
There those four shouted forth old 

Saturn's name ; 
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, 
*' Saturn ! " 



Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods. 
In whose face was no joy. tliough all the 

Gods 
Gave from their hollow throats the name 

of ' ' Saturn ! " 

BOOK III 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them, Muse! O leave them to 

their woes ; 
For thou art weak to sing such tumults 

(lire : 
A solitary sorrow best befits 
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt 

find 
Many a fallen old Divinity 
Wandering in vain about bewildered 

shores. 
Meantime touch piously the Delphic 

harp, 
And not a wind of heaven but will 

breathe 
In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 
For lo ! "tis for the Father of all verse. 
Flush every thing that hath a vermeil 

hue, 
Let the rose glow intense and warm the 

air. 
And let the clouds of even and of morn 
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 
Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd 

shells. 
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion 

turn 
Through all their labyrinths ; and let the 

maid 
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss 

surpris'd. 
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 
Rejoice. O Delos, witli thine olives 

green, 
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, 

and beech. 
In wliich the zephyr breathes the loud- 
est song. 
And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath 

the shade : 
Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 
Where was he, when the Giant of the 

Sun 
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his 

peers ? 
Together had he left his mother fair 
And his twin-sister sleeping in their 
bower, 



KEATS 



421 



And in tlie morning twilight wandei'ed 

forth 
Beside the osiers of a rivulet. 
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few 

stars 
Were lingering in the heavens, while the 

thrush 
Began calm-throated. Throughout all 

the isle 
There was no covert, no retired cave 
Uniiaunted by tlie murmurous noise of 

waves. 
Though scarcely heard in many a green 

recess. 
He listen'd, and he'wept, and liis bright 

tears 
Went trickling down the golden bow he 

held. 
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he 

stood, 
While fi'om beneath some cumbrous 

boughs hard by 
With solemn step an awful Goddess 

came. 
And there was purport in lier looks for 

him, 
Which lie with eager guess began to read 
Perislex'd, the while melodiously he 

.said : 
" How cam'st thou over the unfooted 

sea ? 
Or hath that antique mien and robeil 

form 
Mov'd in these vales invisible till now? 
Sure I have heard those vestments 

sweeping o'er 
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 
The rustle of those ample skirts about 
These grassy solitudes, and seen the 

flowers 
Lift up their heads, as still the wliisper 

pass'd. [fore. 

Goddess ! I have beheld those ej'es be- 
And tlieir eternal calm, and all that face. 
Or I have dream'd." — "Yes,'' said tlie 

supreme shape, 
" Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awak- 
ing up 
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, 

all the vast 
Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
ListenM in pain and i>leasure at the birth 
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not 

strange 
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? 

Tell me, youth, 



What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am 
sad 

When thou dost shed a tear : explain 
tby griefs 

To one who in this lonely isle hath been 

The watcher of thy sleep and hours of 
life. 

From the young day when first thy in- 
fant liand 

Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till 
thine arm 

Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 

Sliow thy lieart's secret to an ancient 
Power 

Wlio hath forsaken old and sacred 
thrones 

For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 

Of loveliness new born." — Apollo then. 

With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, 

Thus answer'd. while his white melodi- 
ous throat 

Throbb'd with the syllables. — " Mne- 
mosyne ! 

Thy name is on my tongue, I know not 
how ; 

Why should I tell thee what thou so 
well seest ? 

Why should I strive to show what from 
thy lips 

Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, 
dark. 

And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 

I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 

Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 

And then upon tlie grass I sit, and moan. 

Like one vrho once had wings. — O why 
should I 

Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the 
liegeless air 

Yields to my step aspirant? why 
should I 

Spurn the green turf as hateful to mv 
feet ? 

Goddess benign, point fortli some un- 
known thing : 

Are there not otlier regions than this 
isle? 

What are the stars? There is the sun, 
the sun ! 

And the most patient brilliance of the 
moon ! 

And st,ars by thousands ! Point me out 
the way 

To any one ])articul;i.r beauteous star. 

And I will flit into it with my lyre, 

A nd make its silvery splendor pant with 
bliss. 

I have heard the cloudy thunder : 
Where is power ? 



422 



BRITISH POETS 



Whose hand, whose essence, what 

divinity 
Makes this alarum in the elements. 
While I here idle listen on the shore 
In fearless yet in aciiiug ignorance? 
O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, 
That waileth every morn and eventide, 
Tell me why thus I rave, about these 

groves ! 
Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can 

read 
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
Knowledge enormous makes a God of 

me. 
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, 

rebellions. 
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
Creations and destroyings, all at once 
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 
And deify me. as if some blithe wine 
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk. 
And so become immortal." — Thus the 

God, 
While his enkindled eyes, with level 

glance 
Beneath liis white soft temples, steadfast 

kept 
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
Soon wild commotions shook him, and 

made flush 
All the immortal fairness of his limbs ; 
Most like the struggle at the gate of 

death ; 
Or liker still to one who should take 

leave 
Of pale immortal death, and with a 

pang 
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce 

convulse 
Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd ; 
His very liair. his golden tresses famed 
Kept undulation round his eager neck. 
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 
Her arms as one who prophesied. — At 

length 
Apollo shriek'd ; — and lo ! from all his 

limbs 
Celestial * ********* 

* * * 

September, IS IS—Sept ember, IS 19. 1820. 
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 



O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering ! 

Tlie sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 



what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
So haggard and so woe-begone ? 

The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest's done. 

1 see a lih^ on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on tliy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

I met a lady in the meads. 

Full beautiful — a faery's child. 

Her liair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 

I made a garland for'her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

Slie look'd at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long. 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery's song. 

She found me I'oots of relish sweet. 
And Jioney wild, and manna dew. 

And sure in language strange she said — 
" I love thee true." 

She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sigh'd full 
sore. 
And there I shut her wild w^ild eyes 

With kisses four. 

And there she lulled me asleep. 

And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 

On tlie cold hill's side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were tiiey 
all ; 

Tliey cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! " 

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke and found me here. 
On the cold hill's side. 

And this is why I sojourn here. 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Thougli the sedge is wither'd from the 
lake 
And no birds sing. 

ISIO. May 10, 1830. 



KEATS 



423 



ON FAME 



Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be 

coy 
To those who woo her witli too slavish 

knees. 
But makes surrender to some thouglit- 

less boy, 
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
She is a Gipsy, — will Tiot speak to tliose 
Who have not learnt to be content with- 
out her ; 
A Jilt, whose ear was never M'hisjier'd 

close, 
Who tliinks they scandal her who talk 

about her ; 
A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 
Sister-in-law to .fealous Potiphar ; 
Ye love-sick Bards ! repay her scorn for 

scorn : 
Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye 

are ! 
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 



II 



How fever'd is the man, who cannot 

look 
Upon his mortal days with temperate 

blood. 
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book. 
And robs his fair name of its maiden- 
hood ; 
It is as if tlie rose should pluck herself. 
Or the ripe phi in finger its misty bloom, 
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf. 
Should darken her pui'e grot with muddy 

gloom : 
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, 
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to 

feed . 
And the ripe plum still wears its dim 

attire, 
The undisturbed lake has crystal space ; 
Why then should man, teasing the world 

for grace. 
Spoil his salvation for a fierce misci'eed ? 
1S19. 1848. 



TO SLEEP 

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, 
Shutting with careful fingers and 

benign, 
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered 

from the light, 
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine : 
O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, 

close, 
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing 

eyes. 
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
Around my bed its lulling charities : 
Then save me, or the passed day will 

shine 
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, — 
Save me from curious conscience, that 

still lords 
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like 

a mole ; 
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 
1819. 1848. 

BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE 
STEADFAST AS THOU ART 

Bright star ! would I were steadfast as 

thou art — 
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the 

night. 
And watching, with eternal lids apart. 
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike 

task 
Of pure abhition round earth's human 

shores. 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the 

moors — 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchange- 
able, 
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening 

bi'east. 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken 

breath, 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 
1S20. 1848. 



N I 



LANDOR 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Works, 8 volames, Chapman & Hall, London, 1874-76. Works, 10 vol- 
umes, edited by C. G. Crump, The Macmillan Co, Poems, Dialogues in 
Verse, and Epigrams, 2 volumes, edited by C. G. Crump, the Macmillan Co. 
Letters and other unpublished Writings, edited by S. Wheeler, London, 
1897. Letters, Private and Public, edited by S. Wheeler, London, 1899. 
Selections from Landor, edited by Sidney Colvin (Golden Treasury 
Series). 

Biography 

* FoRSTER (John), W. S. Landor : A Biography, 2 volumes, 1869 ; also 
(abridged) as Vol. I. of Works, 1874. * Colvin (Sidney), Landor (Eng- 
lish Men of Letters Series). 

Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

Robinson (IT. C), Diary, Vol. II, Chap. XII, etc. Mitford (M. R.), 
Recollections of a Literary Life. Browning (Elizabeth Barrett), in Home's 
New Spirit of the Age. Ejierson, Natural History of Intellect. De 
QuiNCEY, Masson's edition, Vol. XL Duffy (C. Gavan), Conversations 
with Carlyle. Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and his Contemporaries. Bless- 
iNGTON (Marguerite), The Idler in Italy. Madden (R. R.), The Literary 
Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington. See also the 
Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Later Criticism 

* BoYNTON (H. W.), Poetry of Landor, in the Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 90, 
page 126, July, 1902. * Colvin (Sidney), Preface to the vohnne of Se- 
lections in the Golden Treasury Series. * Dowden (Edward), Studies in 
Literature. Evans (E. W.), A Study of Landor. Henley ( W. II.), Views 
and Reviews. Lee (Vernon), Studies in Literary Psychology : The Rhe- 
toric of Landor, in the Contemporary Review, Vol. 84, Page 856, 1903. 
Lowell (J. R.), Latest Literary Essays and Addresses. Oliphant (Mar- 
garet), Victorian Age of English Literature. Satntsbury (George), 
Essays in English Literature, Second Series. Scudder (H. E.), Men and 
Letters: Landor as a Classic. * Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. II. * Swinburne, Miscella- 
nies. * Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters and Life. 

Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. De Vere (Aubrey), Essays, chiefly on 
Poetry, Vol. II. Devey (J.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English 
Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. Dowden (Edward), French 

424 



LAN DOR 



425 



Revolution and English Literature, Evaxs (E. Waterman, Jr.), Walter 
Savage Landor : A Critical Study. IIittton (Lawrence), Landmarks of 
Florence. Mitchell (D. G.), England's Lands, Letters and Kings. Nen- 
cioNi (E.), Letteratura inglese : Colvin, Biogratia di Landor. Sarrazix 
(G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angleterre. Schuyler (E.), Italian Influences. 

Tributes in Verse ; Memorial Verses, etc. 

** Watson (W.), Landor's Hellenics. Japp (A. H.), Landor, in Stinl- 
man's Victorian Anthology. * * Swinuurne, Poems and Ballads, First 
Series: In Memory of Walter Savage Landor. * Swinburne, Studies in 
Song : Song for the Centenary of Walter Savage Landor. 

Bibliography 

Wheeler (S.), in Letters and Other Unpublished Writmgs of Landor. 



LANDOR ^ 



GEBIR 
BOOK I 

The Invasion. The Meeting of Gebir 
AND Charoba. The Loves of Ta- 

MAR AND the SEA-NYMPH. ThE SeA- 

shell. The Wrestling-match. 

I SING the fates of Gebir. He hud 

dwelt 
Among those mountain-caverns which 

retain 
His labors yet, vast halls and flowing 

wells, 
Nor have forgotten their old master's 

name 
Though sever'd from liis people : here, 

incensed 
By meditating on pririeval wrongs. 
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose 
Whole nations ; here, ten thousand of 

most might 
He call'd aloud ; and soon Charoba saw 
His dark helm hover o'er the land of 

Nile. 
What should the virgin do ? should 

royal knees 
Bend suppliant ? or defenceless hands 

engage 
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms ? 
For 'twas reported that nor sword suf- 
ficed, 



Nor shield immense nor coat of massive 
mail, 

But that upon tlieir towering heads they 
bore 

Eacli a huge stone, refulgent as the stars. 

This told she Dalica. then cried aloud, 

" If on yonr bosom laying down my head 

I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child. 

If I have always, and Heav'n knows I 
have. 

Next to a mother's lield a nurse's name, 

Succor this one distress, recall those 
days. 

Love me, tho' 'twere because you lov'd 
me then." 
But whether confident in magic rites 

Or toviclied with sexual pride to stand 
implor'd, 

Dalica smiled, then spake: "Away 
those fears. 

Though stronger than the strongest of 
his kind. 

He falls ; on me devolve that charge ; 
lie falls. 

Rather than fly him, stoop thou to al- 
lure ; 

Nay, journey to his tents. A citj^ stood 

Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad 
built, [ground 

Whose father Gad built Gadir ; on this 

Perhaps he sees an ample room for war. 

Persuade him to restore the walls him- 
self 



426 



BRITISH POETS 



In lionor of his ancestors. i)ersuade . . . 
But wherefore this advice? youug, un- 

espoused, 
Cliaroba want persuasions ! and a 

queen ! "' 
" O Dalica ! " the shuddering maid 

exclaini'd, 
"Could I encounter that fierce frightful 

man ? 
Could I speak? no, nor sigh." "And 

canst thou reign ? " 
Cried Dalica; "Yield empire or com- 
ply." 
Unfixed, though seeming fixed, her 

eyes downcast. 
The wonted buzz and bustle of the court 
From far througli sculptured galleries 

met lier ear ; 
TJien lifting up her head, the evening 

sun 
Pour'd a fresh splendor on her burnished 

til rone : 
The fair Charoba, the young queen, com- 
plied. 
But Gebir, when he heard of her ap- 
proach, 
Laid by liis orbed shield ; his vizor-helm, 
His buckler and his corset he laid b3^ 
And bade that none attend him : at liis 

side 
Two faithful dogs that urge the silent 

course, 
Shaggy, deep-chested, crouched ; the 

crocodile, 
Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid 

ears 
And pusli their heads within their mas- 
ter's hand. 
There was a brightening paleness in his 

face. 
Such as Diana rising o'er tlie rocks 
Shower'd on the lonely Latmiau ; on his 

brow 
Sorrow there was, yet nought was there 

severe. 
But when the royal damsel first he saw. 
Faint, hanging on her hand-maid, and 

her knees 
Tottering, as from the motion of the 

car, 
His eyes looked earnest on her, and 

those eyes 
Show'd, if they had not, that they might 

have, lov'd. 
For there was pity in them at that hour. 
With gentle speech, and more with 

gentle looks. 
He sooth'd lier ; but lest Pity go beyond 
And crost Ambition lose her lofty aim 



Bending, he kissed her garment, and 

retired. 
He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry 

noon, 
When viands, couches, generous wines, 

persuade, 
And slumber iuost refreshes; nor at night, 
When heavy dews are laden with disease; 
And blindness waits not there for linger- 
ing age. 
Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he 

arrived 
At those rich meadows where young 

Tamar fed 
The royal flocks eJitrusted to his care. 
" Now, ".said he to him.self," will I repose 
At least this burthen on a brother's 

breast." 
His brother stood befoi'e liim : he, amazed, 
RearM .suddenly Ins liead, and thus iH'gan. 
"Is it thou, brother ! Tamar, is it thou ! 
Why, standing on the valley's utmost 

verge, 
Lookest thou on that dull and dreary 

shore 
Where beyond sight Nile blackens all 

the sand? 
And why that sadness ? Wlien I past our 

sheep 
The dew-drops were not shaken off the 

bar. 
Therefore if one be wanting, 'tis untold." 
" Yes, one is wanting, nor is that 

untold," 
Said Tamar ; " and this dull and dreary^ 

shore 
Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." 
Whereon the tear stole silent down his 

cheek, 
Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd : 
Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying 

spake. 
" Let me appi'oa(;h thee ; does the morn- 
ing light 
Scatter tliis wan .suffusion o'er tliy brow, 
Tliis faint blue lustre under both thine 

eyes ? " 
" O brother, is this pity or reproacli ?" 
Cried Tamar, " cruel if it be reproach, 
If pity, O how vain ! " " Wliate'er it be 
That grieves thee, I will pity, thou but 

speak. 
And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for 

pang." 
" Gebir ! tlien more than brothers are 

we now ! 
Everything(takemy hand) will I confess. 
I neither feed the flock nor watch the 

fold; 



II 



LANDOR 



427 



How can I. lost in love ? But, Gebir, why 
That anger which has risen to your 

cheek ? 
Can other men ? could you ? what, no 

reply ! 
And still more anger, and still worse 

conceal'd ! 
Are these vour promises ? your pity 

this ? '■' 
" Tamar, I well may pity what I feel — 
Mark me aright — I feel for thee — 

proceed — 
Relate me all." '' Then will I all relate.*' 
Said the young shepherd, gladden'd 

from his heart. 
" 'Twas evening, though not sunset, and 

the tide 
Level with these green meadows, seeni'd 

yet higher : 
'Twas pleasant ; and I loosen'd from my 

neck 
The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 

that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
It always brings us enemies or love. 
Well, I was playing, when above the 

waves 

Some swimmer's head niethought I saw 
ascend ; 

I. sittingstill, survey'd it, with my pipe 

Awkwardly held before my lips half- 
closed, 

Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nj^mph 
divine ! 

1 cannot wait describing liow she came. 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor ; of what happen'd there re- 
mains 

Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sweet deceiver stepped upon this 

bank 
Before I was aware ; for with surpi-ise 
Moments fl}' ra|)id as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the lioarsen'd 

reed, 
I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble 

feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells 

explored 
By him who to befriend his steed's dim 

siglit 
Would blow the pungent powder in the 

eye. 
Her eyes too ! O immortal Gods ! her 

eyes 
Resembled — what could they resemble ? 

what 
Ever resemble those? Even lier attire 
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 



Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire- 
pod, 
Her girdle the dove-color'd wave serene. 
•"Shepherd," said she, "and will you 

wrestle now. 
And with the sailor's hardier race en- 
gage ? " 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
How to keep up contention : could I fail 
By pressing not too sti'ongly, yet to 

press ? 
"Whether a shepherd, as indeed yod 

seem, 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage."' 
" But first." said she, " what wager will 

you lay V " 
" A sheep," I answered : " add whate'er 

you will." 
"I can not," she replied, "make that 

return : 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep, 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have im- 
bibed 
In the sun's palace-porch, wiiere when 

unyoked 
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the 

wave : 
Shake one and it awakens, then ai)[)ly 
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes. 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs 

there. 
And I have others given me by the 

in'mphs. 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you 

have ; 
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe con- 
tend. 
This time a sheep I win. a pipe the next." 
Now came she forward eager to engage. 
But first her dress, lier bosom then sui'- 

vey'd. 
And heav'd it, doubting if she could 

deceive. 
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like 

heav'n, 
To bafile touch, and rose forth unde- 
fined : 
Above her knee she drew the robe suc- 
cinct. 
Above her breast, and just below her 

arms. 
"This will preserve niv breath when 

tightly bound. 
If struggle and equal strength should so 
constrain." 



428 



BRITISH POETS 



Thus, pulling hard to fasten it. she spake, 
And, rushing at nie, closed : I thrill'd 

throughout 
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with 

cold. 
Again with violent impulse gushed my 

blood. 
And hearing nought external, thus ab- 

sorb'd, 
I heard it, rushing through each turbid 

vein, 
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in 

air. 
Yet with vmyielding though uncertain 

arras 
I clung around her neck ; the vest be- 
neath 
Rustled against our slippery limbs en- 
twined : 
Often mine springing with eluded force 
Started aside and trembled till replaced : 
And when I most succeeded, as I thought, 
My bosom and my throat felt so com- 
pressed 
That life was almost quivering on my 

lips, 
Yet nothing was there painful : these 

are signs 
Of secret arts and not of human might ; 
AVhat arts I cannot tell ; I only know 
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength 

decay'd ; 
I was indeed o'ercome . . . with what 

regret, 
And more, with what confusion, wlien 

I reached 
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she 

cried, 
" This pays a shepherd to a conquering 

maid." 
She smiled, and more of pleasure than 

disdain 
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, 
And eyes that languished, lengthening. 

just like love. 
Slie went away ; I on the wicker gate 
Leant, and could follow with my eyes 

alone. 
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
But when I lieard its bleating, as I did. 
And saw, she liastening on, its hinder 

feet [slip, 

Sti'Uggle, and from her snowy shoulder 
One shoulder its poor efforts had un 

veil'd, [tears ; 

Then all my passions mingling fell in 
Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down 

the tide ; 



And the long moonbeam on the hard 

wet sand 
Lay like a jasper column half up-rear'd." 
"But, Tamar ! tell me, will she not 

return ? " 
'* She will return, yet not before the 

moon 
Again is at the full : she promised this, 
Tho' when slie promised I could not 

reply." 
" By all the Gods I pity thee ! go on, 
Fear not my anger, look not on my 

shame. 
For when a lover only hears of love 
He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. 
Away witli watchful nights and lonely 

days, 
Contempt of earth and aspect up to 

lieaven. 
With contemplation, with humility, 
A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when 

deform'd, 
Awav with all that hides me from my- 

■ self, 
Parts me from others, whispers I am 

wise : 
From our own wisdom less is to be reapt 
Than from the barest folly of our friend. 
Tamar ! thy pastures, large and rich, 

afford 
Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy 

sheep. 
But, battened on too much, the poorest 

croft 
Of thy poor neighbor yields what thine 

denies." 
The}^ hasten'd to the camp, and Gebir 

there 
Resolved his native country to forego, 
And ordered from those ruins to the right 
They forthwith raise a city. Tamar 

heard [told, 

AVith wonder, tho' in passing 'twas half- 
His brother's love, and sigh'd upon liis 

own. 1798.1 

ROSE AYLMER 

Ah what avails the sceptred race, 
Ah wliat the form divine ! 

What every virtue, every grace 1 
Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

^ The exact dates of luritiiuj, for nearly all of 
Lander's poems, are unknown ; and the same is 
true for Browning, and, on the whole, for all of 
the following poets. From this point on, there- 
fore, the poems of each author will be arranged 
chronologically according to the dates of ;??{?);!- 
caf/on, and the dates of writing (if known) will 
be given only when especially important. 



LANDOR 



429 



Rose Aylinei", whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee.i 1806. 

REGENERATION 2 

We are what suns and winds and waters 

make us ; [the rills 

Tlie mountains are our sponsors, and 
Fashion and win their nursling witii 

their smiles. 
But where the land is dim from t5'ranny, 
Tliere tiny pleasures occupy the place 
Of glories and of duties : as tlie feet 
Of fabled fairies when the sun goes down 
Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers 

strove by day. [above, 

Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One 
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form 
That burst into existence from the froth 
Of ever-varying ocean : wliat is best 
Then becomes worst ; what loveliest, 

most deformed. 
The heai't is hardest in the softest climes. 
The passions flourish, tlie affections die. 
O tliou vast tablet of these awful truths, 
That fillest all the space between tlie seas. 
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts 
To the Tarentine anol Hydruntine mole. 
What lifts thee up ? what shakes thee ? 

'tis the breath [life ! 

.Of God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to 
Let the last work of his right hand appear 
Fresh with his image, Man. Thou 

recreant slave 
Tliat sittest afar off and helpest not, 
O thou degenerate Albion ! ^ with what 

shame 

1 Rose Ayhner, the daughter of Henry, fourth 
Barou Aylmer, was Landor's companion in liis 
walks about Swansea (" Abertawy" ) in Wales. 
She went to India, and died there in 1800. Lan- 
dor speaks of her again in two poems written 
late in life : The Three Roses. 1858, (see page 
•l.'jT); and Abertnivy. 1859, the concluding lines of 
which almost equal in beauty this early lyric, 
usually considered the most beautiful of his 
poems : 

Where is she now ? Call'd far away. 
By one she dared not disobey, 
To those proud halls, for youth unfit, 
Where princes stand and judges sit. 
Where Ganges rolls his widest wave 
She dropped her blossom in the grave ; 
Her noble name she never changed. 
Nor was her nobler heart estranged. 
* Inspired by the struggle of the Greek people 
for independence. 

3 " What those amongst us who are affected by 
a sense of national honor most lament, is, that 
England, whose generosity would cost her noth- 
ing and whose courage would be unexposed to 
fatality, stands aloof." (Landor, in the Dedica- 
tion of Imaginary Conversations, 1829. ) 



Do I survey thee, pushing forth the 

sponge 
At thy spear's length, in mockery at the 

thirst 
Of holy Freedom in his agony. 
And prompt and keen to pierce the 

wounded side ! 
Must Italy then wholly rot away 
Amid her slime, before she germinate 
Into fresh vigor, into form again ? 
Wliat thunder bursts upon mine ear ! 

some isle 
Hath surely risen from the gulfs pro 

found. 
Eager to suck the sunshine from the 

breast 
Of beauteous Nature, and to catch the 

gale 
From golden Hermus andMelena's brow. 
A greater thing than isle, than continent. 
Than earth itself, than ocean circling 

earth. 
Hath risen there ; regenerate Man hatli 

risen. 
Generous old bard of Chios ! not that Jove 
Deprived thee in thy latter daj^s of sight 
Would I complain, but that no higher 

theme 
Than a disdainful youth, a lawless king, 
A pestilence, a pyre, awoke thj^ song. 
When on the Chian coast, one javelin's 

throw 
From where thy tombstone, where thy 

cradle, stood. 
Twice twenty self-devoted Greeks as- 

sail'd 
The naval host of Asia, at one blow i 
Scattered it into air . . , and Greece 

was free . . . 
And ere these glories beam'd, thy daj' 

had closed. 
Let all that Elis ever saw, give wa.v. 
All that Olympian Jove e'er smiled 

upon : 
The Marathonian columns never told 
A tale more glorious, never Salaniis, 
No)', faithful in the centre of the false, 
Platea, nor Anthela, from wlio.se mount 
Benignant Ceres wards the blessed Laws, 
And sees the Amphictyon dip his weary 

foot 
In the warin streamlet of the strait be- 
low. 
Goddess ! altho' thy brow was never 

rear'd [sail'd 

Among the powers that guarded or as- 

' Alluding to the victory of Canaris over the 
Turkish fleet. Compare the poem of Victor 
Hugo on the same battle, in Les Orientates. 



43° 



BRITISH POETS 



Perfidious Ilion, parricidal Thebes, 
Or other walls whose war-belt e'er in- 
closed 
Man's congregated crimes and vengeful 

pain, 
Yet hast thou touched the extremes of 

grief and 303' ; 
Grief upon Enna's mead and Hell's as- 
cent, 
A solitary mother ; joy beyond. 
Far beyond, that thy woe, in this thy 

fane : 
The tears were human, but the bliss 

divine. 
I, in the land of strangers, and depressed 
"With sad and certain presage for my 

own. 
Exult at hope's fresh dayspring, tho' 

afar. 
There where my youth was not unexer- 
cised 
By chiefs in willing war and faithful 

song : 
Sliades as the\' were, they were not 

empty shades. 
Whose bodies haunt our world and blear 

our sun. 
Obstruction worse than swamp and 

shapeless sands. 
Peace, ]>raise, eternal gladness, to the 

souls 
That, rising from the seas into tlie 

heavens. 
Have ransom 'd first their country with 

their blood ! 
O thou immortal Spartan ! at whose 

name 
The marble table sounds beneath my 

palms, 
Leonidas ! even thou wilt not disdain 
To mingle names august as these with 

thine ; 
Nor thou, twin-star of glory, thou whose 

rays 
Stream'd over Corinth on the double 

sea, 
Achaian and Saronic ; whom the sons 
Of Syracuse, when Death removed thy 

light. 
Wept more than slavery ever made them 

weep. 
But shed (if gratitude is sweet) sweet 

tears. 
The hand that then pour'd ashes o'er 

their heads 
Was loosen'd from its desperate chain 

by thee. 
What now can press mankind into one 

mass, 



For Tyranny to tread the more secure ? 
From gold alone is drawn the guilty 

wire [tone 

That Adulation trills : she mocks tlie 
Of Duty, Courage. Virtue, Piety, 
And under her sits Hope. O how unlike 
That graceful form in azure vest array 'd, 
With brow .serene, and e3'es on heaven 

alone 
In jiatience fixed, in fondness unob- 

scured ! 
What monsters coil beneath the spread- 
ing tree 
Of Despotism ! what wastes extend 

around ! 
What poison floats upon the distant 

breeze ! 
But who are those that cull and deal its 

fruit ? 
Creatures that shun the light and fear 

the shade, 
Bloated and fierce, Sleep's mien and 

Famine's cry. 
Rise up again, rise in thy dignity, 
Dejected Man ! and scare this brood 

away. 1824. 

CHILD OF A DAY. THOU KNOWEST 

NOT 

Child of a day. thou knowest not 

Tlie tears that overflow thine urn, 
The gushing eyes that read thy lot. 

Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return ! 
And wh}' the wish ! thepuieand blessed 

Watch like thy mother o'er tiiy sleep. 
O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 

Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 

1831. 

LYRICS, TO lANTHE 

Away my verse ; and never fear, 

As men before sucli beaut)' do ; 
On you she will not look severe. 

She will not turn her eyes from you. 
Some happier graces could I lend 

That in her memory you should live. 
Some little blemislies might blend. 

For it would please her to forgive. 



When Helen first saw wrinkles in her 

face 
('Tvvas when some fiftj' long had settled 

there 
And intermarried and branched off 

a wide) 



LANDOR 



431 



She threw herself upon her coucli and 

wept : 
On this side liung her head, and over 

that 
Listlessly she let fall the faitliless brass 
Tluit made tlie men as faithless. 

But when you 
Found tliem, or fancied them, and would 

not hear 
That they were only vestiges of smiles, 
Or the impression of some amorous hair 
Astray from cloistered curls and roseate 

band. [perhaps 

Which had been Ij'ing there all night 
Upon a skin so soft. " No. no,'' you said, 
•• Sure, thej' are coming, yes, are come, 

are here : 
Well, and what matters it, while thou 

art too ! " 



lanthe ! you are call'd to cross the sea ! 

A path forbidden me ! 
Remember, while the Sun his blessing 
sheds 
Upon the mountain-heads, 
How often we have watclied him laying 
down 
His brow, and dropped our own 
Against eacli other's, and how faint and 
short 
And sliding the support ! 
Wliat will succeed it now ? Mine is 
unljlessed. 
lantlie! nor will rest 
But on the very thought that swells with 
pain. 
O bid me hope again ! 
O give me back what Earth, what (with- 
out you) 
Not Heaven itself can do. 
One of the golden days that we have 
past ; 
And let it be my last ! 
Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 
Fi-agile and incomplete. 



I held her liand. the pledge of bliss, 
Her hand tliat trembled and with- 
drew ; 

She bent her head before my kiss . . 
Mj^ heart was sure that hers was true. 

Now I have told her I must part. 
She shakes my iiand. she Ijids adieu. 

Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! 
Hers never was the heart for you. 



Pleasui-e ! why thus desert the heart 

In its spring-tide ? 
I could have seen iier. I could part. 

And but have sigli'd ! 

O'er every youthful charm to stray, 

To gaze, to touch . . 
Pleasure ! why take so much away, 

Or give so much ! 



Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
The odor of the falling spray ; 

Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
And balmless is its closing day. 

I wait its close, I court its gloom, 

But mourn that never must there fall 

Or on my breast or on my tomb 

The tear that would havesot)th'd it all. 



Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives. 
.> Alcestis rises from the shades ; 
Verse calls them forth ; 'tis verse that 
gives 
Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
Hide all the peopled hills you see. 

The gay, the proud, while lovei'S hail 
Tliese many summers 3'ou and me. 

1831. 

FIESOLAN IDYL 

Here, where precipitate Spring, with 
one light bound 

Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires. 

And where go forth at morn, at eve, at 
nigiit. 

Soft airs that want the lute to play with 
'em. 

And softer sighs that know not what 
they want. 

Aside a wall, beneath an oi-ange-tree. 

Whose tallest flowers could tell the low- 
lier ones 

Of sights in Fiesole right up above. 

While I was gazing a few paces off 

At what they seem'd to show nie with 
their nods, / 

Their frequent whispers and their point- 
ing shoots, 

A gentle maid came down the garden- 
steps [lapJ 

And gathered the pure treasure in hei 



432 



BRITISH POETS 



I heard the branches rustle, and stepped 

forth 
To drive tlie ox away, or mule or goat. 
Such I believed it must be. How could I 
Let beast o'erpower tliem ? Wlien liath 

wind or rain 
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted 

me. 
And I (however they might bluster 

round) 
Walked off ? 'Twere most ungi-atef ul : 

for sweet scents 
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter 

thoughts, 
And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
That would let drop without them her 

best stores. 
They bring me tales of j^outh and tones 

of love. 
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers live freely, and all die 
(VVliene'er their Genius bids their souls 

depart) 
Among their kindred in their native 

place. 
I never pluck tlie rose ; the violet's head 
Hath shaken with my breath upon its 

bank 
And not reproached me : the ever-sacred 

cup 
Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of 

gold. 
I saw tlie light that made tlie glossy 

leaves 
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer 

clieek 
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
I saw the foot that, altho' lialf-erect 
From its gray slipper, could not lift lier 

up 
To what she wanted : I held down a 

brancli 
And gather'd her some blossoms ; since 

their hour 
Was come, and bees had wounded tliem, 

and flies 
Of harder wing were working their way 

thro' 
And scattering them in fragments under- 
foot. 
So crisp were some, they rattled un- 

evolved. 
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells. 
For such appear the petals wlien de- 
tached 
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like 

snow, [sun : 

And like snow not seen tln"o', by eye or 



Yet every one her gown received from 

me 
Was fairer than tlie first. I thought not 

so. 
But so she praised them to reward my 

care. 
I said, " You find the largest." 

"This indeed,'' 
Cried she. " is large and sweet." She 

held one forth, 
AVhether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solved (and this she 

felt) her doubt. 
I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a 

part 
Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most 

mature 
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 
The boon she tender'd, and then, finding 

not 
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in. 
Dropped it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 

1831. 

FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 

Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their 

shade 
In calm repose at last is Landor laid, 
For ei-e he slept he saw tli^m planted 

here 
By her his .soul liad ever held most dear, 
And he liad lived enough when he had 

dried her tear. 1881. 

UPON A SWEET-BRIAR 

My briar that smelledst sweet 
When gentle spring's first heat 

Ran through th)' quiet veins, — 
Thou that wouldst injure none, 
But wouldst be left alone. 
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of 
thine remains. 

What ! hath no poet's lyre 

O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar, 

Hung fondly, ill or well? 
And yet methinks with thee 
A poet's sympatliy. 
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, 
might dwell. 

Hard usage both must bear, 
Few hands your jouth will rear. 

Few bosoms cherish you ; 
Your tender prime must bleed 



. 



LANDOR 



433 



Ere you are sweet, but freed 
From life, you then ai"e prized ; thus 
prized are poets too. 



And art thou yet alive ? 
And shall the happy hive 

Send out her youth to cull 
Thy sweets of leaf and flower, 
And spend the sunny hour 
With thee, and thy faint heart with 
murmuring music lull ? 

Tell me wliat tender care. 
Tell me what pious prayer, 
Bade thee arise and live. 
The fondest-favored bee 
Sliall whisper nought to thee 
Move loving than the song mj^ grateful 
muse shall give. 

1834.1 

THE MAID'S LAMENT 

I IjOVED him not ; and yet now he is gone 

I feel I am alone. 
I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could 
he speak, 
Alas ! I would not clieck. 
For reasons not to love him once I 
sought, 
And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would 
give 
My love, could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and when he 
found 
'Twas vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid tlie shades of 
death. 
I waste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me : but mine re- 
turns, 
And this lorn bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart : 
for years 
Wept he as bitter tears. 
Merciful God! such was his latest 
prayer. 
These may she never share. 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more 
cold. 
Than daisies in the mould, 
Where children spell, atliwart the 
churchyard gate, 

* This and the following poem are from the 
Citation of William Shakespeare. 

28' 



His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you 
- be. 
And oh ! pray too for me. 

1834. 

THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON Ly^ 
AND IPHIGENEIA i 

Iphigeneia. Father ! I now may lean 

upon your breast, 
And you with unre verted eyes will grasp 
Iphigeneia's hand. 

We ai'e not shades 
Surely ! for yours throb yet . 

And did my blood 
Win Troy for Greece ? 

Ah ! 'twas ill done, to shrink ; 
But the sword gleam'd so sharp ; and the 

good priest 
Trembled, and Pallas frown'd above, 

severe. 
Agamemnon. Daughter ! 
Iphigeneia. Beloved father ! is the 

blade 
Again to pierce my bosom ? 'tis vmftt 
For sacrifice ; no blood is in its veins. 
No God requires it here : here are no 

wrongs 
To vindicate, no realms to overthrow. 
You standing as at Aulis in the fane. 
With face averted, holding (as before) 
My hand ; but yours burns not, as then 

it burn'd. 
This alone siiovvs me we are with the 

Blessed, 
Nor subject to the sufferings we have 

borne. 
I will win back past kindness. 

Tell me then. 
Tell how my mother fares who loved me 

so. 
And griev'd, as 'twere for you, to see me 

part. 
Frown not, but pardon me for tarrying 
Amid too idle words, nor asking liow 
She prais'd us both (whicli most?) for 

what we did. 
Agamemnon. Ye Gods who govern 

here ! do human pangs 
Reach the pure soul thus far below ? do 

tears 
Spring in these meadows? 

1 "I imagine AgameiTinon to descend from his 
horrible death, and to meet instantly his daugh- 
ter. By the nature of things, by the suddenness 
of the event, Iphigeneia can have heard nothing 
of her mother's double crime, adultery and 
murder." .\spasia to Cleone, introducing the 
poem as first given in Pericles and Aspasia, 1836. 



434 



BRITISH POETS 



Tphigeneia. No, sweet father, no . . 
I could have answered that ; why ask 

tlie Gods ? 
Agamemnon. Ipliigeneia ! O my 

child ! the Earth 
Has gendered crimes unheard of hei'eto- 

fore, 
And Nature may Iiave changed in her 

last depths, 
Together with the Gods and all their 

laws. 
Tphigeneia. Father ! we must not let 

you here condemn ; 
Not, were the day less joyful : recollect 
We have no wicked here; no king to 

judge. 
Poseidon, we have heard, with bitter 

rage 
Lashes his foaming steeds against the 

skies. 
And, laughing with loud yell at winged 

fire, 
Innoxious to his fields and palaces 
Affriglits the eagle from the sceptred 

hand ; 
While Pluto, gentlest brother of the 

three 
And happiest in obedience, views sedate 
His tranquil realm, nor envies theirs 

above. 
No change have we, not even day for 

night 
Nor spring for summer. 

All things are serene, 
Serene too be your spirit ! None on earth 
Ever was half so kindly in his house, 
And so compliant, even to a cliild. 
Never was snatch'd your robe away from 

me, [man 

Though going to the council. The blind 
Knew his good king was leading him 

indoors. 
Before he heard the voice that marshal'd 

Greece. 
Therefore all prais'd you. 

Proudest men themselves 
In others praise liumility' and most 
Admire it in the sceptre and the sword. 
What then can make you speak thus 

rapidly 
And briefly ? in your step thus hesitate ? 
Are you afraid to meet among the g(wd 
Incestuous Helen here? 

Agamemnon. O ! gods of hell ! 

Ipliigeneia. Slie hath not past the 

river. 

We may walk 
With our hands link'd nor feel our 

house's shame. 



Agamemnon. Never mayst thou, Iplii- 
geneia, feel it ! 
Aulis had no sluirp sword, thou wouldst 

exclaim, 
Greece no avenger — I. lier chief so late, 
Through Erebos, through Elysium, 

writhe beneath it. 
Iphigeneia. Come, I have better dia- 
dems tlian tliose 
Of Argos and Mycenai : come away. 
And I will weave them for you on the 

bank. 
You will not look so pale when j'ou have 

walk'd 
A little in the grove, and have told all 
Those sweet fond words the widow sent 

her child. 
Agamemnon. O Eartli ! I suffered 

less upon thy shores ! 
[Aside.) The bath that bubbled with 

my blood, the blows 
That spilt it (O worse torture!) must 

she know ? 
Ah ! the first woman coming from Mj'- 

cenai 
Will pine to pour this poison in her ear. 
Taunting sad Charon for his slow ad- 
vance. 
Iphigeneia ! 

Iphigeiieia. Why thus tui-n away? 
Calling me with such fondness ! I am 

here. 
Father ! and where j^ou are. will ever be. 
Agamemnon. Thou art my child ; yes, 

yes, thou art my child. 
All was nob once what all now is ! Come 

on. 
Idol of love and truth ! niv cliild ! mj^ 

child ! 
(Alone.) Fell woman! ever false! 

false was thy last 
Denunciation, as tliy bridal vow ; 
And yet even that found faith with me ! 

The dirk 
Which sever'd flesh from flesh, where 

tliis hand rests. 
Severs not, as thou boastedst in thy 

scoffs. 
Iphigeneia's love from Agamemnon : 
The wife's a spark may light, a straw 

consume. 
The daughter's not her lieart's whole 

fount liath quench'd, 
'Tis worth}' of the Gods, and lives for 

ever. 
Iphigeneia. What sjjake my father 

to the Gods above ? 
Unwortliy am I then to join in prayer ? 
If, on the last, or any day before^ 



LANDOR 



435 



or luy brief course on earth. I did amiss, 
Say it at once, and let uie be unblessed ; 
But. O my faultless father ! why should 

you? 
And shun so my embraces ? 

Am I wild 
And wandering in my fondness ? 

We are siiades ! 
Groan not thus deeply ; blight not thus 

the season 
Of fuU-orb'd gladness ! Shades we are 

indeed. 
But mingled, let us feel it, with the 

blessed. 
I knew it, but forgot it suddenly, 
Altlio' I felt it all at your approach. 
Look on me ; smile with me at my 

illusion. 
You are so like what you have ever been 
(Except in sorrow !) I might well forget 
I could not win you as I used to do. 
It was the first embrace since my de- 
scent 
I ever aim'd at : those who love me live. 
Save one, who loves me most, and now 

would chide me. 
Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphi- 

geneia, we 
Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools 

the heart [more 

With purity, nor words that more and 
Teacli what we know, from those we 

know, and sink 
Often most deeply where they fall most 

light. 
Time was when for the faintest breath 

of thine 
Kingdom and life were little, 

Iphigeneia. Value them 

As little now. 
Agdmemnon. Were life and kingdom 

all ! 
Iphigeneia. Ah ! by our death many 

are sad who loved us. 
The little fond Electra, and Orestes 
So childish and so bold ! O that mad 

boy! 
They will be happy too. 

Cheer ! king of men ! 
Cheer ! there are voices, songs — Ciieer ! 

arms advance. 
Agamemnon. Come to me, soul of 

peace ! These, these alone, 
These are not false embraces. 
Iphigeneia. Both are happy ! 

Agamemnon. Freshness breathes 

round me from some breeze above. 
What are ye, winged ones ! with golden 

urns ? 



The Hours 

( Descending. ) To each an urn we bring : 
Earth's purest gold 
Alone can hold 
The lymph of the Lethean spring. 
We, son of Atreus ! we divide 
Tlie dulcet from the bitter tide 
That runs athwart the paths of 
men. 
No nioi-e our pinions shalt thou see. 
Take comfort ! We have done with 
tiiee. 
And must away to earth again. 
{Ascending.) Wiiere tiiou art, thou 

Of braided brow. 
Thou cuU'd too soon from Argive bowers, 
Where thy sweet voice is heard among 
The shades that thrill with choral song, 
None can regret the parted Houi's. 

(Ax the Hours depart., the shades of the Argive 
■irarn'ors loho had fought at Troy approach aiul 
chiiut in chorus the jyraises of Agamemnon and 
liis daughter.) 

Chorus of Argives 

Maiden ! be thou the spirit that breathes 
Triumph and joy into our song ! 

Wear and bestow these amaranth- 
wreaths, 
Iphigeneia — they belong 

To none but tiiee and her who reigns 

(Less clianted) on our bosky plains. 

Semi-chorus 

Iphigeneia ! 'tis to thee 

Glory we owe and victory. 

Clash, men of Argos, clash your 

arms. 
To martial worth and virgin charms. 

Other Semi-chorus 

Ye men of Argos ! it was sweet 
To roll the fruits of conquest at tlie feet 
Whose whispering sound made bravest 
hearts beat fast. 
This we have known at home ; 
But hither we are come 
To crown the king who ruled us first 
and last. 

Cho7'US 

Father of Argos ! king of men ! 
We chant tiie hymn of praise to 
thee. 
In serried ranks wt> stand again. 

Our glory safe, our country free. 



436 



BRITISH POETS 



Clash, clash the arms we bravely 

bore 
Against Scamander's God-defended 

shore. 

Seini-choi'us 

Blessed art thou who hast repell'd 
Battle's wild fury, Ocean's whelming 
foam ; 
Blessed o'er all, to have beheld 
Wife, children, house avenged, and 
peaceful home ! 

Other Semi-chorus 

We, too, thou seest, are now 
Among the happy, though the 
aged brow 
From sorrow for us we could not 
protect. 
Nor, on the polished granite of tlie 

well 
Folding our arms, of spoils and 
perils tell, 
Nor lift the vase on the lov'd head 
erect. 

Semi-chorus 

What whirling wheels are those 

behind ? 
What plunK-s come flaring through 
the wind, 
Nearer and nearer? Frona his 
car 
He who defied the heaven-born 
Powers of war 
Pelides springs ! Dust, dust are we 
To him, O king, who bends the knee. 
Proud only to be first in reverent praise 
of thee. 

Other Semi-Chorus 

Clash , clash the arms ! None other race 
Shall see such heroes face to face. 
We too have fought ; and they have seen 
Nor sea-sand gray nor meadow green 
Where Dardans stood against their 

men. 
Clash ! lo Paean ! clash again ! 
Repinings for lost days rejjress. 
The flames of Troy liad cheer'd us less. 

Choriis 

Hark ! from afar more war-steeds neigh, 
Thousands o'er thousands rush this way. 
Ajax is yonder ! ay, behold 
The radiant arms of Lycian gold ! 
Arms from admiring valor won, 



Tydeus ! and worthy of thy son. 
'Tis Ajax wears tliem now ; for he 
Rules over Adrias stormy sea. 

He threw them to the friend who lost 
(By the dim judgment of the host) 
Those wet with tears which Thetis gave 
Tlie youth most beauteous of th'e brave. 
In vain ! the insatiate soul would go 
For comfort to his peers below. 
Clnsli ! ere we leave theni all the plain, 
Clash! lo Paean ! once again. ^ 1836. 

THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA2 

" Artemidora ! Gods invisible, 

While thou ai*t lying faint along the 

couch. 
Have tied tiie sandal to thj' slender feet 
And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
Tiiy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
Refreshing shades will wiift thy weari- 
ness 
A way, and voices like thy own come near 
And nearer, and solicit an embrace.'" 
Artemidora sigh'd, and would have 
pressed 
The hand now pressing hers, but was too 

weak. 
Iris stood over her dark hair unseen 
While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into 
Eyes that had given light and life ere- 

while 
To those above them, but now dim with 

tears 
And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy 
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, 

Joy, 

Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once 

more : 
Her liead fell back ; and now a loud deep 

sob 
SwellM thro' tlie darken'd chamber ; 

'twas not hers. 

CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM 

ATHENS 

Tanagra ! think not I forget 
Thy beautifully storied streets ; 

Be sure my memory bathes j'et 

In clear Tiiermodon, and yet greets 

Tlie blithe and liberal shepherd-boj^ 

> See Lander's own comment on this poem, p. 

440. 

■ 1830, in Pericles and Aspasia. Sliffhtly altered 
aivl iiicluiled in the Hellenics, 1840, etc., from 
wliich the present text is taken. See Colvin's 
Comment on the poem, in his Life of Landor^ 
pp. 193-4. 



LAN DOR 



437 



Wliose sunny bosotn swells with joy 
When we accept his matted rushes 
Upheav'd with sylvan fruit ; away he 
bounds, and blushes. 

A gift I promise : one I see 
Wliich thou with transport wilt re- 
ceive, 
The only proper gift for thee. 

Of which no mortal shall bereave 

In later times thy mouldering walls, 

Until tlie last old turret falls ; 

A crown, a crown from Athens won, 

A crown no God can wear, beside La- 

tona's son. 

There may be cities who refuse 

To tlieir own cliild the honors due, 
And look ungently on the Muse ; 
But ever shall those cities rue 
f The dry, vxnj^ielding, niggard breast, 
* Offering no nourishment, no rest, 
■ To that yoiuig head which soon shall 

rise 
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the 
skies. 

Sweetl)' where cavern'd Dirce flows 
Do white-aruVd maidens cliant ni}' 
lay. 
Flajiping tlie while with laurel-rose 
The lioney -gathering tribes away ; 
And sweetly, sweetl}' Attic tongues 
Lisp your Corinna's early songs ; 
To her with feet more graceful come 
The verses that have dwelt in kindred 
breasts at home. 

O let thy children lean aslant 

Against the tender mother's knee. 
And gaze into her face, and want 

To know what magic'tliere can be 
In words that urge some eyes to dance, 
Wliile others as in holy trance 
Look u[) t(5 heaven : be such my praise ! 
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the 
Delphic bays. 18;i6. 

SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 

I HAVE belield thee in the morning hour 
x\. solitary star, with tliankless eyes, 
Ungi-ateful as I am ! who bade thee rise 
Whensleepall night had wandered from 
my bovver. 

Can it be true that thovi art he 
Who shines now above the sea 
Amid a thousand, but more bright ? 



Alt yes ! the very same art thou 
That heard me then and hearestnow . . . 
Thou seemest, star of love ! to throb with 
light. 1836. 

LITTLE AGLAE 

TO HKR FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING 
CALLED LIKE HER 

Father ! the little girl we see 

Is not, I fancy, so like me ; 

You never hold her on your knee. 

When she came home, the other day, 
You kiss'd her ; but I cannot say 
81ie kiss'd you first and ran away. 

1836. 

DIRCE 

Stand close around, ye Stj'gian set, 
With Dirce in one boat convej'ed. 

Or Charon, seeing, may forget 

That he is old, and she a shade. 

1836. 

CLEONE TO ASP ASIA 

We mind not how the sun in the mid- 
sky 
Is hastening on ; bvit when the golden 

orb 
Strikf-s the extreme of earth, and when 

the gulfs 
Of air and ocean open to receive him, 
Damimess and gloom invade us ; then 

we think 
Ah! thus is it with Youth. Too fast his 

feet 
Run on for sight ; hour follows hour ; 

fair maid 
Succeeds fair maid ; bright ej'es bestar 

his c<nich ; 
The cheerful horn awakens him ; the 

feast, 
Tlie revel, tlie entangling dance, allure. 
And voices mellower than the Muse's 

own 
Heave up his buoj'ant bosom on their 

wave. 
A little while, and then — Ah Youth ! 

Youth! Youth! 
Listen not to my words — but stay with 

me ! 
When thou art gone. Life may go too ; 

the sigh 
That rises is for thee, and not for Life. 

1836. 



438 



BRITISH POETS 



ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 

Borgia, thou once wert almost too 

august 
And high for adoration ; now thou'rt 

dust ; 
All that remains of thee tliese plaits 

unfold, 
Calm hair meandering in i^ellucid gold. 

1837. 

TO WORDSWORTH 

Those who have laid the harp aside 

And turn'd to idler things. 
From very restlessness have tried 

The loose and dusty strings, 
And, catching back some favorite strain. 
Run with it o'er the chords again. 

But Memory is not a Muse, 

O Wordswortli ! though 'tis said 

Tliey all descend from lier, and use 
To haunt her fountain-head : 

That other men should work for me 

In the rich mines of Poesie, 

Pleases me better than the toil 

Of smoothing under hardened hand. 

With attic emery and o\\. 
The shining point for Wisdom's wand. 

Like tliose thou teniperest 'mid the rills 

Descending from thy native hills. 

Without his governance, in vain. 
Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold. 

If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain, 

Clogs in the furnace and grows cold 
Beneath his pinions deep and frore. 
And swells and melts and flows no 

more. 
That is because the heat beneath 
Pants in its cavern poorlj' fed. 
Life springs not from the couch of 
Death, 
Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the 
dead ; 
Unturn'd then let the mass remain. 
Intractable to sun or rain. 

A marsh, where only flat leaves lie, 
And showing but the broken sky, 
Too surely is the sweetest lay 
That wins the ear and wastes the day. 
Where youthful Fancy pouts alone 
And lets not Wisdom toucli iier zone. 

He who would build his fame up higii, 
The rule and jilummet must apply. 
Nor say, "I'll do what I have plaun'd,'' 



Before he try if loam or sand 
Be still remaining in the place 
Delved for each polisiied pillar's base. 
With skilful eye and fit device 
Thou raisest every edifice, 
Wliether in sheltered vale it stand, 
Or overlook the Dai-dan strand, 
Amid the cypresses that mourn 
Laodameia's love forlorn. 

We both have run o'er half the space 

Listed for mortal's earthly race ; 

We botli have crossed life's fervid line. 

And other stars before us shine : 

May they be briglit and prosperous 

As those that have been stars for us ! 

Our course by Milton's light was sju'd. 

And Sliakespeare shining overhead : 

Chatting on deck was Dryden too, 

The Bacon of the rhj^ming crew ; 

None ever cross'd our mystic sea | 

More richly stored with tliouglit tlian he/ 

Tho' never tender nor sublime. 

He wrestles with and conquers Time. 

To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, 

I left nnich prouder company ; 

Thee gentle Spenser fondly led. 

Bvit me he mostly sent to bed. 

I wish tliem every ]ny above 
That iiighly blessecl spirits prove. 
Save one : and that too shall be tlieirs. 
But after many rolling years. 
When 'mid their light th}- liglit appears. 
ISJJ. 1837. 

TO JOSEPH ABLETT 

Lord of tiie Celtic dells. 
Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel 

tells 
Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance 

The plumes of flashy France, 
Or, in dark region far across the main. 
Far as Grenada in the world of Spain, 

Warriors untold to Saxon ear. 
Until their steel-clad spirits reappear ; 
Hovv happy were the hours that held 
Tliy friend (long absent from his native 

home) 
Amid tliy scenes with thee! how wide 
afield 
From all past cares and all to come ! 

Wliat liath Ambition's feverish grasp, 
wliat liath 
Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ; 
What Genius, that should coiie 



LANDOR 



439 



Witli the lieart-vvliisijers ill that path 
Winding so idly, \\ here tlie idler stream 
Flings at the white-haired poi)lars 
gleam for gleam ? 

Ablett ! of all the days 
My sixty summers ever knew, 
Pleasant as there have been no few, 

Memory not one surveys 
Like those we spent together. Wisely 

spent 
Are they alone that leave the soul con- 
tent. 

Together we have visited the men 

Whom Pictish pirates vainly would 
have drowned ; 
Ah. shall we ever clasp the hand again 
That gave the British harp its truest 
sound ? 
Live, Derwent's guest ! and thou by 

Grasinere's sin-iiigs ! 
Serene creators of immortal things. ^ 

And live too thou for happier days 
Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays 

Have heart and soul possess'd : ^ 
Growl in Grim London he who will. 
Revisit thou Maiano's hill. 

And swell with pride his sunburnt 
breast. 

Old Redi in his easy-chair 

With varied cliant awaits thee there. 

And here are voices in the grove 
Aside my house, that make me tlxink 
Bacchus is coming down to drink 

To Ariadne's love. 

But wliither am I borne away 
From thee, to -whom began my lay ? 

Courage ! I am not yet quite lost ; 
I stepped aside to greet my friends ; 
Believe me, soon the greeting ends, 

I know but three or four at most. 

Deem not that Time hath borne too hard 
Upon the fortunes of thy bard, 

Leaving me only three or four : 
'Tis my old number ; dost thou start 
At such a tale ? in what man's heart 
Is there fireside for more ? 

I never courted friends or Fame ; 
She pouted at me long, at last she came. 
And threw her arms around my neck 
and said, 

' Southey anil Wordsworth. " Leigh Hunt. 



•• Take what hath been for years delay'd, 
And fear not that the leaves will fall 
One hour the earlier from thy coronal." 

Ablett ! thou knowest with what even 
hand 
I waved away the offer'd seat 
Among the clambering, clattering, stilt- 
ed great, 
The rulers of our land ; 
Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, 
Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup. 

Thou knowest how, and why, are dear 

to me 
My citron groves of Fiesole, 
My chirping Affrico, my beechwood 

nook, 
My Naiads, with feet only in the brook. 
Which runs away and giggles in their 

faces, 
Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other 

places. 

'Tis not Pelasgian wnll. 
By him made sacred whom alone 
'Twere not profane to call 
The bard divine, nor (thrown 
Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest 
Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. 

Here can I sit or roam at will : 

Few trouble me, few wish me ill. 
Few come across me, few too near ; 

Here all my wishes make their stand ; 

Here ask I no one's voice or hand ; 
Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear. 

Yon vine upon the maple bough 
Flouts at the hearty wheat below ; 
Away her venal wines the wise man 
sends, 
While those of lower stem he brings 
From inmost treasure vaiilt, and sings 
Their worth and age among his cho.sen 
friends. 

Beliold our Earth, most nigh the sun 
Her zone least opens to the genial heat, 
But farther off her veins more freely 
run : 
'Tis thus with those who whirl about 
the great ; [mote 

The nearest shrink and shiver, we re- 
May open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 
i6'J4. 1837.1 

' This poem had been printed in an earlier 
form, containing: lines to Coleridge, in Leigh 
Hunt's Lnnrlnii journal. December .S, 1834. See 
Colvin's Life of Landor, note to p. 143. 



440 



BRITISH POETS 



TO MARY LAMB 

Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet 

awhile ! 

Again sliall Elia"s smile 

Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache 

no more. 

What is it we deplore ? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs 
and years, 

Far worthier things than tears. 
The love of friends without a single foe : 

Unequalled lot below ! 

His gentle soul, his genius, these are 
thine ; 
For these dost thou repine ? 
He may have left the lowly walks of 
men ; 
Left them he has ; what then ? 

Are not his footsteps followed by the 
eyes 
Of all the good and wise ? 
Tho' the warm da)' is over, yet they 
seek 
Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind the roseate light that 
glows 
O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him! from the region of tlie 
blessed 

He speaks : he bids thee rest. 
1834. 1B37. 

ON HIS OWN IPHIGENEIA AND 
AGAMEMNON 

From eve to morn, from morn to part- 
ing night 

Father and daughter stood within my 
sight. [they said, 

I felt the looks they gave, the words 

And reconducted each serener sliade. 

Ever shall these to me be well-spent 
days, 

Sweet fell the tears upon them, sweet 
the praise. [throne. 

Far from the footstool of the tragic 

I am tragedian in that scene alone. 

1837. 

FAREWELL TO ITALY 

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more 
From the high terraces, at eventide. 
To look supine into thy depths of sky, 
Thy golden moon between the cliff and 
me, 



Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 
Bordering the channel of the milky-way. 
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams 
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico 
Murmur to me but in tlie poet's song. 
I did believe (what have I not believed?) 
Weary with age, but unoppressed by 

pain, 
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day 
And rest my bones in the Mimosa's 

shade. 
Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherished thee 

so little ; 
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely 

raised ; [well. 

But thou didst jiromise this, and all was 
For we are fond of thinking where to lie 
When every pulse hath ceased, when the 

lone heai-t 
Can lift no aspiration — reasoning 
As if the sight were unimpaired by death. 
Were unobstructed bj' the cofRn-lid, 
And tlie sun cheered corruption ! Over 

all 
The smiles of nature shed a potent 

charm. 
And light us to our chamber at the 

grave. 1SS5. 1846. 

WHY, WHY REPINE 

Why, why repine, my pensive friend. 

At i)leasures slipped away? 
Some the stern Fates will never lend, 

And all refuse to stay. 

I see the rainbow in the sky, 

The dew upon the grass. 
I .see them, and I ask not why 

They glimmer or they pass. 

With folded arms I linger not 

To call them back ; 'twere vain ; 
In this, or in some other spot, 
T know they'll shine again. 

1846. 

MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY 
WHEEL 

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; 

My fingers ache, my lips are dry : 
Oh ! if you felt the pain I feel ! 

But oh, who ever felt as I ? 
No longer could I doubt him true — 

All other men may use deceit ; 
He always said my eyes were blue. 

And often swore my lips were sweet. 

1846. 



LANDOR 



441 



TO A BRIDE 
February 17, 1846 1 

A STILL, serene, soft day ; enough of sun 
To wreathe the cottage smoke like piue- 

tiee snow, 
Whiter than those white flowers the 

bride-maids wore ; 
Upon the sitent boughs the lissom air 
Rested ; and, only when it went, they 

moved. 
Nor more than under linnet springing off. 
Such was the wedding morn : the joy- 
ous Year 
Leapt over March and April up to May. 
Regent of rising and of ebbing liearts, 
Thyself borne on in cool serenity. 
All heaven around and bending over 

thee, 
All eartli below and watchful of tliy 

course ! 
Well hast thou chosen, after long demur 
To aspirations from more realms tlian 

one. 
Peace be with those thou leavest ! [)eace 

with thee ! 
Is that enougli to wish thee? not enough, 
But very much : for Love liimself feels 

pain, 
While brighter plumage shoots, to slied 

last year's ; 
And one at home (how dear that one !) 

recalls 
Thy name, and thou recallest one at 

home. 
Yet turn not back thine eyes ; the hour 

of tears 
Is over ; nor believe tliou that Romance 
Closes against pure Faith her rich do- 
main. 
Shall only blossoms flourish there ? 

Arise, 
Far siglited bride ! look forward ! 

clearer views 
And liigher hopes lie under calmer skies. 
Fortune in vain call'd out to thee ; in 

vain 
Rays from high regions darted ; Wit 

pour'd out 
His sparkling treasures ; Wisdom laid 

his crown 
Of richer jewels at thy reckless feet. 
Well hast thou chosen. I repeat the 

words, 

' For the marriage of the daughter of Rose 
Aylmer's half-sister. Called by Landor " my 
tenderest lay." See The Three Roses, p. 457, and 
note there. 



Adding as true ones, not untold before. 
That incense must have fire for its as- 
cent. 
Else 'tis inert and can not reacli the idol. 
Youth is the sole equivalent of youtii. 
Enjoy it while it lasts ; and last it will ; 
Love can prolong it in despite of Years. 

1846. 

/ LYRICS 

" Do you remember me ? or are you 

proud ? " 
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd 

crowd, 
lantlie said, and looked into my eyes. 
" A yes, a yes, to both : for Memory 
Where you but once have been must ever 

be. 
And at your voice Pride from his 

throne must rise." 



No, my own love of other j^ears ! 

No, it must never be. 
IMuch rests with you that yet endears, 

Alas ! but what with me? 
Could those bright years o'er me revolve 

So gay, o'er you so fair, 
Tlie pearl of life we would dissolve 

And each tlie cup might sliare. 
You show tliat truth can ne'er decay. 

Whatever fate befalls ; 
I, that the myrtle and tlie bay 

Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 



One year ago niy path was green. 
My footstep light, mj^ brow serene ; 
Alas ! and could it have been so 
One year ago? 

There is a love that is to last 
When the hot days of youth are past : 
Such love did a sweet maid bestow 
One year ago. 

I took a leaflet from her braid 
And gave it to another maid. 
Love ! broken should have been thy bow 
One year ago. 



Yes ; I write verses now and then, 
But blunt and flaccid is my pen. 
No longer talked of by young men 
As rather clever : 



442 



BRITISH POETS 



In tlie last quarter are my eyes, 
You see it by their form and size ; 
Is it not time then to be wise 'i 
Or now or never. 

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
While Time allows the short reprieve, 
Just look at me ! would you believe 

"Twas once a lover ? 
I cannot clear the five-bar gate, 
But, trying first its timbers' state. 
Climb stiflily up, take breath, and wait 

To trundle over. 

Thro' gallopade I cannot swing 

The entangling blooms of Beauty's 

spring : 
I cannot say the tender thing, 

Be't true or false, 
And am beginning to opine 
Those girls are only half -divine 
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine 

In giddy waltz. 

I fear that arm above that shoulder, 
I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
Sedater, and no harm if colder 

And panting less. 
Ah ! people were not half so wild 
In former days, when, starchly mild, 
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled 

The brave Queen Bess. 



With rosy hand a little girl pressed down 
A boss of fresh-cuU'd cowslips in a rill : 
Often as they sprang up again, a frown 
Show'd she disliked resistance to her 

will: 
But when they droop'd their heads and 

shone much less, 
She shook them to and fro, and threw 

them by. 
And tripped away. " Ye loathe the 

heaviness 
Ye love to cause, my little girls ! " 

thought I, 
" And what had shone for you, by you 

must die." 



You smiled, you spoke, and I believed. 
By every word and smile deceived. 
Another man would hope no more ; 
Nor hope I what I lioped before : 
But let not this last wish be vain ; 
Deceive, deceive me once again ! 



Remain, ali not in youth alone, 

Tho' youth, where you are, long will 
stay. 
But when my summer days are gone. 

And my autumnal haste away. 
" Can I he always by your side ?" 

No ; but the liours you can, you must. 
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, 

Nor go when dust is gone to dust. 



Soon, O Ian the ! life is o'er. 

And sooner l)eautj''s heavenly smile 
Grant onlj-^ (and I ask no more), 

Let love remain that little while. 



TO A CYCLAMEN 

I come to visit thee again. 

My little flowerless cyclamen ; 

To touch the liand, almost to press, 

That cheered thee in tliy loneliness. 

What could thy careful guardian find 

Of thee in form, of me in mind, 

What is there in us rich or rare. 

To make us claim a moment's care? 

Unworthy to l)e so caressed, 

We are but withering leaves at best. 



Give me tlie eyestliat look on mine. 
And, when they see them dimly shine. 

Are moister than they were. 
Give me the eyes that fain would find 
Some relics of a youthful mind 

Amid the wrecks of care. 
Give me the eyes that catch at last 
A few faint glimpses of the past, 

And, like the arkite dove. 
Bring back a long-lost olive-bough, 
And can discover even now 

A heart that once could love. 



Twenty years hence my eyes may grow 
If not quite dim, yet rather so. 
Still yours from others they shall know 
Twenty years hence. 

Twenty years hence tho' it may hap 

That I be call'd to take a nap 

In a cool cell where tlmnder-clap 

Was never heard, 



LANDOR 



443 



There breathe but o'er my arch of grass 

A not too sadly sigli'd Alas, 

And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 

That winged word. 



Proud word you never spoke, but you 
will speak 
Four not exempt from pride some 
future day. 
Resting on one white hand a warm wet 
cheek 
Over my open volume you will say, 
"This man loved me.'" then rise and 
trip away. 



Alas, how soon the hours are over 
Counted us out to play tlie lover ! 
And how much narrower is the stage 
Allotted us to play tlie sage ! 
But when we pla>- tlie fool, how wide. 
The theatre expands ! beside. 
How long the audience sits before us ! 
How many prompters ! wiiat a cliorus ! 

184G. 

QUATRAINS 

On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
Myrtle and rose ! your wreath com- 
bine, 

The duller olive I would wear. 
Its constancy, its peace, be mine. 



Mj- hopes retire ; my wishes as before 
Struggle to find tlieir resting-place in 

vain ; 
The ebbing sea thus beats against the 

shore ; 
The shore repels it ; it returns again. 



Various the roads of life ; in one 

All terminate, one lonely vvay. 

We go ; and '• Is he gone ? "' 

Is all our best friends say. 



weary 



Is it not better at an early hour 
In its calm cell to rest the 
head, 

While birds are singing and wliile 
blooins the bower, 
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to 
bed? 1S46. 



I KNOW NOT WHETHER I 
PROUD 



AM 



I KNOW not whether I am proud. 
But this I know, I hate the crowd : 
Therefore pray let me tlisengage 
My verses from the motley page, 
Where others far more sure to please 
Pour out their choral song with ease. 

And yet perhaps, if some should tire 
With too much froth or too much fire, 
Tliere is an ear that may incline 
Even to words so dull as mine. 

1846. 

THE DAY RETURNS, MY NATAL 
DAY 

The day returns, my natal day. 

Borne on the storm and pale with 
snow, 

And seems to ask me why I stay. 
Stricken b}^ Time and bowed by Woe. 

Many were once the friends who came 
To wish me joy ; and tliei'e are some 

Who wish it now : but not the same •. 
They are whence friend can never 
come. 

Nor are they you my love watched o'er 
Cradled in innocence and sleep ; 

You smile into my eyes no more. 
Nor see the bitter "tears they weep. 

1846. 

HOW JIANY VOICES GAILY SING 

How many voices gaily sing, 

" O happy morn, O liappj' spring 

Of life ! " Jleanwhile there comes o'er 

me 
A softer voice from ]\Iemory, 
And saj^s. "If loves and hopes have 

flown 
With years, think too what griefs are 

gone ! " 1846. 

TO ROBERT BROWNING 

There is delight in singing, tho' none 

hear 
Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
In praising, tho' the iiraiser sit iilone 
And see the prais'd far off him, far 

above. 
Shakespeare is not our jioet, but the 

world's, 



444 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlierefore on him no speech ! and brief 

for thee, 
Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive 

and hale, 
No man hath walked along our roads 

with step 
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse. But warmer 

climes 
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : 

the breeze 
Of Alpine lieights thou playest with, 

borne on 
Beyond Sorrento and Anialfi, where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for 

song. 1846. 

ON THE HELLENICS 1 

Come back, ye wandering Muses, come 

back home, 
Ye seem to have forgotten wliere it lies: 
Come, let us walk upon the silent s;uids 
Of Simois, where deep footmarks show 

long strides ; 
Thence we may mount, perliaps, to 

higher ground, 
Where Aphrodite from Atliene won 
The golden apple, and from Here too. 
And liappy Ares sliouted far below. 
Or would ye rather choose the grassy 

vale 
Where flows Anapos thro' anemones, 
Hyacinths, and narcissuses, tliat bend 
To show their rival beauty in tlje 

stream ? 
Bring with you each her lyre, and each 

in turn 
Temper a graver with a lighter song. 

1S47. 

THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE 

Who will away to Athens with me ? 

wlio 
Loves clioral songs and maidens crown'd 

with flowers, 
Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist 

the sail. 
I pi-omise ye, as many as are here, 

' Prefixed to the second edition of Landor's 
Hellenics, 1847. It is here given slightly out of 
the exact chronological order, that it may stand 
as an introduction to the chief poems from the 
Hellenics, those of 184(5 as well as those of 1847. 

Other poems of I.,andor's. such as The Death of 
Ariemidora, Cleone to AspasUi, The Shades of 
Agamemnon and Iphlgenein, etc., though orig- 
inally published in other collections, and there- 
fore not given here with the Hellenics, were ul- 
timately included by Lander among them. 



Ye shall not, wliile ye tarry with me, 

taste 
From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine 
Of a low vineyard or a plant ill-pruned, 
But such as anciently the ^gean isles 
Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts : 
And the same goblets sliall ye grasp. 

embossed 
With no vile figures of loose languid 

boors, 
But such as gods have lived with and 

liave led. 
The sea smiles bright before us. What 

wliite sail 
Plays yonder ? What pursues it ? Like 

two liawks 
Away they fly. Let us away in time 
To overtake them. Are they menace,'.; 
AVe hear ? And shall the strong repulse 

tiie weak, 
Enraged at her defender ? Hippias ! 
Art thou the man ? 'Twas Hippias. He 

had found 
His sister borne from the Cecropian port 
By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly ? 
Ask, ask tlie maiden ; I liave no reph'. 
"Brother! O brother Hippias! O, if 

love, 
If pity, ever touoh'd tliy breast, forbear ! 
Strike not tlie brave, the gentle, the be- 
loved , 
My Tlirasymedes, with his cloak alone 
Protecting his own head and mine from 

harm." 
" Didst thou not once before," cried 

Hippias, 
Regardless of his sister, hoarse with 

wrath 
At Thrasymedes, " didst not tliou, dog- 

eyed. 
Dare, as she walk'dup to the Parthenon, 
On the most holy of all holy days. 
In siglit of all the city, dare to kiss 
Her maiden cheek ? " 

" Ay, before all the gods. 
Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis. 
Ay, before Aphrodite, before Here, 
I dared ; and dare again. Arise, my 



spouse 



Arise ! and let my lips quaff purity 
From thy fair open brow." 

The sword was up. 
And yet he kiss'd her twice. Some God 

withlield 
The arm of Hippias ; his proud blood 

seeth'd slower 
And smote his breast less angrily ; he 

laid [spaive thus : 

His hand on the wliite shoulder, and 



LANDOR 



445 



"Ye must return with me. A second 

time 
Offended, will our sire Peisistratos 
Pardon the affront? Thou sliouldst 

have ask'd thyself 
This question ere the sail first flapp'd the 

mast." 
" Already thou hast taken life from me ; 
Put up thy sword," said the sad youtli, 

his eyes 
Sparkling ; but whether love or rage or 

grief 
They sparkled with, the Gods alone covikl 

see. 
Piraeeus they re-entered, and their ship 
Drove up the little waves against the 

quay, 
Whence was thrown out a rope from one 

above. 
And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's 

waist 
Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed 

to think 
He had retain'd it there in sight of rude 
Irreverent men : he led her forth, noi- 

spake. 
Hijipias walked silent too, until they 

reached 
The mansion of Peisistratos lier sire. 
Serenely in liis sternness did the prince 
Look on tliem both awhile : they saw not 

him. 
For both had cast their eyes upon the 

ground. 
" Are tliese the pirates thou liast taken, 

son ? " 
Said he. "Worse, father ! \vorse than 

pirates they, 
Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse 
Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites 
Twice over." 

" Well hast thou performed thy duty," 
Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos. 
" Nothing then, rash young man ! could 

turn thy heart 
From Eunoe, my daughter?" 

" Nothing, sir. 
Shall ever turn it. I can die but once 
And love but once. O Eunoe ! farewell ! " 
" Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear 

for lier." 
" O father ! shut me in my chamber, 

shut me 
In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive, 
But never let me see what he can bear ; 
I know how much that is, when borne 

for me." 
" Not yet : come on. And lag not thou 

behind. 



Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts ! 
Before the people and before the Goddess 
Thou hadst evinced tiie madness of tliy 

passion , 
And now wouldst bear from home and 

plenteousness 
To poverty and exile this mj' child." 
Then shuddered Tlirasymedes, and ex- 

claim'd, 
■' I see my crime : I saw it not before. 
The daughter of Peisistratos was born 
Neither for exile nor for povei'ty, 
All ! nor for me ! '" He would have wept, 

but one 
Might see him, and weep worse. The 

prince unmoved 
Strode on, and said. "To-morrow shall 

the people. 
All who beheld thy trespasses, behold 
The justice of Peisistratos, the love 
He bears his daughter, a,nd the reverence 
In which he holds tlie highest law of 

God." 
He spake ; and on the morrow they 

were one. 1846. 

IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia, when she heard lier doom 
At Aulis, and when ;dl beside the King 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and 

said, 
" O father ! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. 

Old-age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who 

knew 
jM}' voice so well, sometimes misunder- 
stood 
While I was resting on her knee both 

amis 
And hitting it to make her mind my 

words. 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
]\Iight he not also hear one word amiss. 
Spoken from so far off, even from Olym- 
pus ? " 
The father placed his cheek upon her 

head. 
And tears dropped down it, Initthe king 

of men 
Replied not. Tlien the maiden spaUe 
once more. [thou not 

" O father ! sayst thou nothing? Hear"st 
Me, wliom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of 
birds, 



446 



BRITISH POETS 



When it was inarticulate as tlieirs. 
And the down deadened it within the 

nest ? " 
He moved lier gently from him, silent 

still, 
And this, and this alone, brought tears 

from her. 
Although she saw fate nearer : then with 

sighs, 
''I thought to have laid down my hair 

before 
Benignant Artemis, and not have 

dimmed 
Her polislied altar witli my virgin blood ; 
I thought to have selected the white 

flowers 
To please the Nymphs, and to have 

asked of each 
By name, and with no sori'owful regret. 
Whether, since both my parents willed 

tlie change, 
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped 

brow ; 
And (after those who mind us girls tlie 

most,) 
Adore our own Atliena. that she would 
Regard me mildly witli her azure eyes. 
But father ! to see _you no more, and see 
Your love, O fatlier ! go ere I am 

gone . ." 
Gently he moved lier off, and drew lier 

back. 
Bending his lofty liead far over hers. 
And the dark depths of nature heaved 

and burst. 
He turn'd away ; not far, but silent 

still. 
She now first shuddered ; for in him, so 

nigh. 
So long a silence seemed the approach of 

death, 
And like it. Once again she raised her 

voice. 
" O fatlier ! if the ships are now de- 
tained. 
And all your vows move not the Gods 

above. 
When the knife strikes me there will be 

one prayer 
The less to them : and purer can there 

be 
A7iy, or more fervent than the daugh- 
ter's prayer 
For her dear fatlier's safety and suc- 
cess^'" [resolve. 
A groan that .shook iiim sliook not liis 
An aged man now entered, and without 
One word, stepped .slowly on, and took 

the wrist 



Of the pale maiden. She looked up and 

saw 
Tlie fillet of tlie priest and calm €old 

eyes. 
Then turned she wiiere her parent 

stood, and cried 
"O father! grieve no more: the sliips 

can sail." 1846. 

THE HAMADRYAD 1 

Rhaicos was born amid tlie hills where- 
from 

Guides the light of Caria is discern'd. 

And small are the white-crested that 
play near. 

And smaller onward are the purple 
waves. 

Thence festal choirs were visible, all 
crovvn'd 

With rose and myrtle if they were in- 
born ; 

If from Pandion sprang the}', on the 
coast 

Where stern Athene raised her citadel. 

Then olive was intwiiied with violets 

Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large. 

For various men wore various coronals ; 

But one was their devotion ; 'twas to 
her 

Whose laws all follow, her whose smile 
withdraws 

The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from 
Zeus. 

And whom in his chill caves the mu- 
table 

Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, re- 
veres, 

And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, 
hath pray'd 

To turn in pity the averted cheek 

Of her he bore away, with promises. 

Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx 
itself. 

To give her daily more and sweeter 
flowers 

Than he made drop from her on Enna"s 
dell. 
Rhaicos was looking from his father's 
dodV 

At the long trains that liastened to the 
town 

From all the valley's, like bright rivu- 
lets 

Gurgling with gladness, wave outrun- 
ning wave, 

' Compare Lowell's poem, Rhceciis, which gives 
a somewhat different version of the same story. 



LANDOR 



447 



And tliought it hard he might not also 

go 
And offer up one prayer, and press one 

hand , 
He knew not whose. The father call'd 

liiin in, 
And said. " Son Rhaicos ! tiiose are idle 

games ; 
Long enough I have lived to find them 

so." 
•And ere he ended siglied ; as old men do 
Alwa}^s, to tliiuk liow idle sucli games 

are. 
"I have not .yet," thought Rhaicos in 

his heart. 
And wanted proof. 

" Suppose thou go and help 
Echeion at tlie hill, to bark yon oak 
And lop its branches off, before we 

delve 
About the trunk and ply the root with 

axe : 
This we may do in winter." 

Rhaicos went ; 
For thence he could see farther, and see 

more 
Of those wlio liurried to the city-gate. 
Eclieion he found tliere with naked arm 
Swai't-hair'd. strong-sinew'd, and liis 

eyes intent 
Upon the place where first the axe 

should fall : 
He held it upright. "There are bees 

about. 
Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious 

eld, 
" Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The 

youth 
Inclined his ear, afar, and warily. 
And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a 

buzz 
At first, and then the sound grew soft 

and clear. 
And then divided into what seem'd tune. 
And there were words upon it, plaintive 

words. 
He turn'd, and said, " Echeion ! do not 

strike 
Tliat tree: it must be hollow ; for some 

god 
Speaks from within. Come thyself 

near." Again 
Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! 

there sat 
Upon the moss below, with her two 

palms 
Pressing it, on each side, a maid in 

form. [pale 

Downcast were her long eyelashes, and 



Her cheek, but never mountain-ash dis- 

play'd 
Berries of color like her lip so pure, 
Nor were the anemones about her hair 
Soft, smooth and wavering like the face 

beneath. 
" What dost thou here ? " Echeion, half- 
afraid, 
Half-angry cried. She lifted up her eyes, 
But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew 

one step 
Backward, for fear came likewise ov^r 

him. 
But not such fear: he panted, gasp'd, 

drevv in 
His breath, and would have turn'd it 

into words. 
But could not into one. 

" O send away 
That sad old man ! " said she. The old 

man went 
Without a warning from his mastei''s 

son. 
Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd, 
And the axe shone behind him in their 

eyes. 
Hamdd. And wouldst thou too shed 

the most innocent 
Of blood ? No vow demands it ; no god 

wills 
The oak to bleed. 

Rhaicos. Who art thou ? whence ? 

why here ? 
And whither wouldst thou go? Among 

the robed 
In white or saffron , or the hue that most 
Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none 
Array *d as thou art. What so beautiful 
As that gray robe which clings about 

thee close. 
Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to 

trees, 
Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn, 
As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the 

boughs 
Of graceful platan by the river-side ? 
Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's 

house? 
Rhaicos. Indeed 

I love it, Avell I love it, yet would leave 
For thine, where'er it be, my father's 

house. 
With all the marks upon the door, that 

show 
My growth at every birthday since the 

third. 
And all the charms, overpowering evil 

eyes. 
My mother nail'd for me against my bed, 



448 



BRITISH POETS 



And the Cydouian bow (vMiich thou 

shalt see) 
Won ill my race last spring from Euty- 

chos. 
Hamad. Bethink thee wliat it is to 

leave a liome 
Thou never yet hast left, one night, one 

day. 
Rhaicos. No, 'tis not hard to leave 

it ; 'tis not hard 
To leave. O maiden, that paternal lioiiie, 
If there be one on earth whom we may 

love 
First, last, for ever ; one who says that 

she 
Will love for ever too. To say which 

word , 
Only to saj^ it, surely is enough . . 
It shows sucli kindness . . if 'twere 

possible 
We at the moment think she would in- 
deed. 
Hamad. Who taught thee all this 

folly at thy age ? 
Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have 

learned to love. 
Hamad. But wilt thou spare the 

tree ? 
Rhaicos. My father wants 
Tlie bark : the tree may hold its place 

awliile. 
Hamad. Awhile ! thy father num- 
bers then my days? 
Rhaicos. Are there no others where 

the moss beneath 
Is quite as tufty? Who would send 

thee forth 
Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thv 

flock 
Anywhere near? 

Hamad. I have no flock : I kill 
Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that 

feels the air, 
The sun, the dew. Why should the 

beautiful 
(And thou art beautiful) disturb the 

source 
Whence springs all beauty ? Hast thou 

never heard 
Of Hamadryads ? 

Rhaicos. Heard of them I have : 

Tell me some tale about them. May I 

sit 
Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? 

The herbs 
Are very soft ; I will not come too nigh ; 
Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor 

doubt. [plore 

Stay, stay an instant : let me first ex- 



If anj' acorn of last year be left 
Within it ; tlij- thin robe too ill protects 
Thy dainty limbs against the liarm one 

small 
Acorn may do. Here's none. Another 

day 
Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite. 
Hamad. I seat me; be thou seated, 

and content. 
Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men 

below ! adore 
The Aphrodite. Is she there below ? 
Or sits she here before me ? as slie sate 
Before the shepherd on those heights 

that shade 
The Hellesi^ont, and brought his kindred 

woe. 
Hamad. Reverence the higher 

Powers ; nor deem amiss 
Of her who pleads to thee, and would 

repay— 
Ask not how much — but very much. 

Rise not ; 
No, Rhaicos, no! Without the nuptial 

vow 
Love is unholy. Swear to me that none 
Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss, 
Then take thou mine ; then take it, not 

before. 
Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above ! 

O Aphrodite ! 

Here ! Let my vow be ratified ! 

But wilt thou come into my father's 
house ? 
Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot 

give thee part. 
Rhaicos. Where is it? 
Hamad. In this oak. 

Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins 

Tlie tale of Hamadryad ; tell it through. 
Hamad. Pray of thy father never to 
to cut down 
My tree ; and promise him, as well thou 

inayst, 
That every year lie shall receive from me 
More honey than will bu)^ him nine fat 

sheep, 
More wax than he will burn to all the 

gods. 
Wliy fallest thou upon tliy face ? Some 

thorn 
May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise 
up ; for shame ! 
Rhaicos. For shame I can not rise. O 
pity me ! 

1 dare not sue for love. . but do not hate 1 
Let me once more behold thee, .not once 

more. [loved ! 

But many days : let me love on . . un- 



LANDOR 



449 



I aimed too high : on my head the holt 
Falls back, and pierces to the very 

brain. 
Hamad. Go., rather go, than make 

me say I lo%'e. 
Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality, 
(And whence enjoy it else the gods 

above?) 
I am immortal too : my vow is heard : 
Hark ! on the left . . Nay, turn not from 

nie now, 
I claim my kiss. 
Hamad. Do men take first, then 

claim ? 
Do tlius the seasons run their course with 

them ? 

Her lips were seal'd, her head sank on 

his breast. 
'Tis said that laughs were heard within 

the wood : 
But who should hear them ?. . and whose 

laughs ? and why ? 
Savory was the smell, and long past 

noon, 
Thallinos ! in thy house : for mai'joram, 
Basil and mint, and thyme and rose- 
mary, 
Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted 

length. 
Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at 

last. 
Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen, 
With head and eyes just o'er the maple 

plate. 
" Tliou seest but badly, coming from the 

sun. 
Boy Rhaicos! "_^said the father. " That 

oak's bark 
Must have been tovigh, with little sap 

between ; 
It ought to run ; but it and I are old." 
Rliaicos, although each morsel of the 

bread 
Increased by chewing, and the meat grew 

cold 
And tasteless to his palate, took a draught 
Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he 

was, 
He thought not of until his father fill'd 
The cup, averring water was amiss. 
But wine had been at all times pour'd on 

kid. 
It was religion. 

He thus fortified 
Said, not quite boldly, and not quite 

abashed, 
" Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that 

oak 
29 



Year after year will bring thee wealth 

from wax 
And honey. There is one who fears the 

gods 
And the gods love — that one " 

(He blush'd, nor said 
What one) 

" Has promised this, and may do more. 
Thou hast not many moons to wait until 
The bees have done tlieir best ; if then 

there come 
Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be 

hewn." 
" Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a 
' prudent mind," 
Said the glad sire : ' ' but look thou often 

there. 
And gather all the honey thou canst find 
In every crevice, over and above 
What has been promised ; would tliey 

reckon that ? " 
Rhaicos went daily ; but thenvmph as 

oft. 
Invisible. To play at love, she knew, 
Stopping its breathings when it breathes 

most soft. 
Is sweeter tlian to play on any pipe. 
She play'd on his : Sjhe fed upon his sighs ; 
They pleased her wlien tliey gently 

waved lier liair. 
Cooling the pulses of her purple veins, 
And when her absence brougiit them 

out, tliey pleased. 
Even among the fondest of them all. 
What mortal or immortal maid is more 
Content with giving happiness than 

pain ? 
One day he was returning from tiie wood 
Despondently. She pitied him, and said 
•• Come back ! " and twined her fingers in 

the iiem 
Above his shoulder. Then she led his 

steps 
To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand 
Through lentisk and through oleander, 
• there 
Bathed she his feet, lifting them on iier 

lap 
When bathed, and drying them in both 

her hands. 
He dared complain ; for those who most 

are loved 
Most dare it ; but not harsh was his 

complaint. 
" O tliou inconstant ! " said he, " if stern 

law 
Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest 

law [hope 

O, let me know henceforward when to 



45° 



BRITISH POETS 



The fruit of love that grows for me but 

here." 
He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant 

stem. 
"Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus inter- 
cept 
Tlie answer I would give ? There is a bee 
Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my 

thoughts 
And executes iny wishes : I will send 
That messenger. If ever thou art false, 
Drawn by another, own it not, but drive 
My bee away ; then shall I know my fate, 
And — for thou must be wretched — weep 

at thine. 
But often as my heart persuades to lay 
Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest, 
Expect her with thee, whether it be 

morn 
Or eve, at any time when woods are 

safe." 
Day after day the Hours beheld them 

blessed, 
And season after season : years had past, 
Blessed were they still. He who asserts 

that Love 
Ever is sated of sweet things, the same 
Sweet things he fretied for in earlier 

days. 
Never, by Zeus ! loved he a Hamadryad. 
The nights had now grown longer, 

and perhaps 
The Hamadryads find tliem lone and 

dull 
Among tlieir woods ; one did, alas ! She 

called 
Her faithful bee : 't was when all bees 

should sleep. 
And all did sleep but hers. She was 

sent forth 
To bring that light which never wintry 

blast 
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extin- 
guishes, 
The light that shines from loving eyes 

upon • 

Eyes that love back, till they can see no 

more. 

Rhaicos was sitting at his father's 
hearth : 

Between them stood the table, not o'er- 
spread 

With fruits whicli autumn now pro- 
fusely bore. 

Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but 
there 

The draft-board was expanded ; at 
which game 



Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son 
Was puzzled, vexed, discomfited, dis- 
traught. 
A buzz was at his ear : up went his 

hand, 
And it was heard no longer. The poor 

bee 
Return'd, (but not until the morn shone 

bright) 
And found the Hamadiyad with her 

head 
Upon her aching wrist, and showed one 

wing 
Half-broken off, the other's meshes 

marr'd. 
And there were bruises which no eye 

could see 
Saving a Hamadryad's. 

At this sight 
Down fell the languid brow, both hands 

fell down, 
A shriek was carried to the ancient hall 
Of Tliallinos : he heard it not : his son 
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the 

wood. 
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was 

green. 
The trunk was riven through. From 

that day forth 
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, 

nor sound 
Even of insect wing ; but loud laments 
The woodmen and the shepherds one 

long year 
Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would 

not quit 
The solitary place, but moan'd and died. 

Hence milk and honey wonder not, O 

guest, 
To find set duly on the hollow stone. 

1846. 

AGON AND RHODOPE ; OR. INCON- 
STANCY 

(A Sequel) 

The Year's twelve daughters had in 

turn gone by. 
Of measured pace though varying mien 

all twelve, 
Some froward, some sedater, some 

adorn'd 
For festival, some reckless of attire. 
The snow had left the mountain-top ; 

fresh flowers 
Had withered in the meadow ; fig and 

jjrune 



I 



LANDOR 



45 1 



Hung wrinkling ; the last apple glovv'd 

amid 
Its freckled leaves ; and weary oxen 

blink'd 
Between the trodden corn and twisted 

vine, 
Under whose bunches stood the empty 

crate, 
To creak ere long beneath tliem carried 

home. 
Tliis was the season wlien twelve months 

before, 
O gentle Hamadryad, true to love ! 
Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the 

wood 
Was blasted and laid desolate ; but none 
Dared violate its precincts, none dared 

pluck 
The moss beneath it, which alone re- 

main'd 
Of what was thine. 

Old Thallinos sat mute 
In solitary sadness. The strange tale 
(Not until Rhaicos died, but then the 

whole) 
Echelon had related, whom no force 
Could ever make look back upon the 

oaks. 
Tlie father said, " Eclieion ! tliou must 

weigh, 
Carefully, and with steady hand, enough 
('Although no longer comes the store as 

once !) 
Of wax to burn all day and night upon 
That hollow stone where milk and honej' 

lie : 
So may the gods, so may the dead, be 

pleas'd ! " 
Thallinos bore it thither in the morn. 
And lighted it and left it. 

P'irst of those 
Who visited upon this solemn day 
The Hamadryad's oak, were Rliodope 
And Aeon ; of one age, one hope, one 

trust. 
Graceful was she as was the nymph 

whose fate 
She sorrowed for : he slender, pale, and 

first 
Lapp'd by the llame of love : his fatlier's 

lands [afar. 

Were fertile, herds lowed over tliem 
Now stood the two aside the hollow stone 
And look'd with steadfast eyes toward 

the oak 
Sliivered and black and bare. 

" May never we 
Love as they loved ! " said Acon, She 

at this 



Smiled, for he said not what he meant to 

say. 
And thought not of its bliss, but of its 

end. 
He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, 

and vow'd 
Nor time nor other power, whereto the 

migiit 
Of love hath yielded and may yield 

again. 
Should alter his. 

The father of the youth 
Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not 
Song, that could lift earth's weight 

from off his heart. 
Discretion, that could guide him thro' 

the world. 
Innocence, that could clear his way to 

heaven : 
Silver and gold and land, not green be- 
fore 
The ancestral gate, but purple under 

skies 
Bending far off, he wanted for his heir. 
Fathers have given life, but virgin 

heart 
They never gave ; and dare thej^ then 

control 
Or check it harshly ? dai"e they break a 

bond 
Girt rovmd it by the holiest Power on 

higii ? 
Acon was grieved, he said, grieved 

bitterly. 
But Acon had complied . . 'twas duti- 
ful : 
Crush th)' own heart, Man ! Man ! but 

fear to wound 
The gentler, that relies on thee alone. 
By thee created, weak or strong by thee; 
Touch it not but for worship ; watch be- 
fore 
Its sanctuary ; nor leave it till are closed 
The temple-doors and the last lamp is 

spent. 
Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude, 
Sate mournful by the dull-resounding 

sea. 
Often not hearing it, and many teai's 
Had the cold breezes hardened on her 

cheek. 
Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of 

oaks. 
Nor shun'd to look upon the hollow 

stone 
Tiiat held the milk and honey, nor to 

lay 
His plighted hand where recently 'twas 

laid 



452 



BRITISH POETS 



Opposite hers, when finger playfully 
Advanced and pushed back finger, on 

each side. 
He did not think of this, as she would 

do 
If she were there alone. 

The day was hot ; 
Tlie moss invited him ; it cool'd his 

cheek. 
It cool'd Ids hands ; he thrust them into 

it 
And sank to slumber. Never was there 

dream 
Divine as his. He saw tlie Hamadryad. 
She took him by the arm and led him on 
Along a valley, wliere profusely grew 
The smaller lilies with their pendent 

bells, 
And, hiding under mint, cliill drosera. 
The violet sh}' of butting cyclamen. 
The feathery fern, and, browser of moist 

banks. 
Her offspring round her, tlie soft straw- 
berry ; 
The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk. 
The oleander's liglit-liaired progeny 
Breatliing bright freshness in each 

other's face. 
And graceful ro.se, bending her brow, 

witli cup 
Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for 

Gods. 
Tlie fragrance fiU'd his breast witli such 

delight 
His senses were bewildered, and he 

thought 
He saw again tlie face he most had 

loved. 
He stopped : the Hamadryad at his side 
Now stood between : then drew him far- 
ther off : 
He went, compliant as before : but soon 
Verdure had ceased : altlio' the ground 

was smooth. 
Nothing was there delightful. At this 

cliange 
He would have spoken, but his guide 

repressed 
All questioning, and said, 

" Weak youth ! what brought 
Thy footstep to this wood, my native 

haunt, 
Mj^ life-long residence? this bank, 

where first 
I sate with him . . . the faithful (now I 

know. 
Too late ! ) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste 

thee home : [more 

Be happy, if thou canst ; but come no 



Where those whom death alone could 
sever, died." 
He started up : the moss whereon he 
slept 

Was dried and withered : deadlier pale- 
ness spread 

Over his cheek ; he sickened : and the 
sire 

Had land enough ; it held his only son. 

1847. 

MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY 

After the fall of Troy, Helen is pursued 
by Menelaus tqy the steps of the 2^cil- 
ace ; an old attendant depi'ecates 
and intercepts his vengeance. 

Menelaus. Out of my way ! Off ! or 
my sword may smite thee 

Heedless of venerable age. And thou 

Fugitive ! stop. Stand, traitress, on that 
stall' — 

Thou mountest not another, bj"^ the 
gods ! 

Now take the death thou meritest, the 
death 

Zeus who presides oer hospitality. 

And every other god wliom thou has 
left. 

And every other who abandons thee 

In tliis accursed city, sends at last. « 

Turn, vilest of vile slaves! turn, para- 
mour 

Of what all other women hate, of cow- 
ards. 

Turn, lest this hand wrench back thy 
head, and toss 

It and its odors to the dust and flames. 
Helen. Welcome, the death thou 
promisest ! Not fear 

But shame, obedience, duty, make nie 
turn. 
Menelaus. Duty ! false harlot ! 
Helen. Name too true ! severe 

Precursor to the blow that is to fall. 

It should alone suffice for killing me. 
Menelaus. Ay, weep : be not the only 
one in Troy 

Who wails not on this day — its last — 
the day 

Thou and thy crimes darken with dead 
on dead. 
Helen. Spare ! spare ! O let the last 
tliat falls be me, 

There are but young and old. 

Menelaus. There are but guilty 

Where thou art, and the sword strikes 
none amiss. 



LANDOR 



453 



Hearest thou uot tlie creeping blood 

buzz near 
Like flies ? or vvouldst thou rather hear 

it iiiss 
Louder, against the flaming roofs tlirown 

down 
Wherewith tlie streets are pathless? Ay. 

but vengeance 
Springs over all : and Nemesis and Ate 
Drove back the flying ashes with both 

hands. 
I never saw thee weep till now : and 

now 
Tliere is no pity in thy tears. The tiger 
Leavps not her young athirst for the 

first milk, 
As thou didst. Thine could scarce have 

clasped thy knee 
If she had felt thee leave her. 

Helen. O my child ! 

My only one ! thou livest : 'tis enough ; 
Hate me, abhor me, curse me — these are 

duties — 
Call me but Mother in the shades of 

deatli ! 
She now is twelve years old, when the 

bud swells 
And the first colors of uncertain life 
Begin to tinge it. 
Menelans {aside.) Can she think 

of home ? 
Hers once, mine yet, and sweet Her- 

mione's ! 
Is there one spark that cheer'd my hearth. 

one left. 
For thee, my last of love ! 

Scorn, righteous scorn 
Blows it from me — but thou mayst^ 

never, never — 
Thou shalt not see her even there. The 

slave 
On earth shall scorn thee, and the damn'd 

below. 
Helen. Delay not either fate. If death 

is mercy. 
Send me among the captives ; so that 

Zeus 
May see his offspring led in chains away, 
And thy hard brother, pointing with his 

sword [shore. 

At the last wretch that crouches on tlie 
Cry, " She alone shall never sail for 

Greece ! " 
Menelaus. Hast thou more w^ords ? 

Her voice is musical 
As the young maids wlio sing to Artemis : 
How glossy is that yellow braid my grasp 
Seiz'd and let loose ! Ah ! can then years 

have past 



Since — bnt the children of the gods, like 

them, 
Suffer not age. 

Helen ! speak honestly, 
And thus escape my vengeance — was it 

force 
That bore thee off ? 
Helen. It was some evil god. 

Menelans. Helping that hated man ? 
Helen. How justly hated ! 

Menelaus. By thee too? 
Helen. Hath he not made thee un- 
happy ? 

do not strike. 
Menelaus. Wretch ! 

Helen. Strike, but do not speak, 

Menelans. Lest thou remember me 

against thy will. 
Helen. Lest I look up and see you 

wroth and sad, 
Against my will ; O ! how against my will 
Tliey know above, they who perhaiJS 

can pity. 
Menelaus. They shall not save thee. 
Helen. Then indeed they pity. 

Menelans. Prepare for death, 
Helen. Not from that hand : ' twould 

pain you. 
Menelaus. Touch not my hand. — Easily 

dost thou drop it ! 
Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou 

command. 
Menelaus. Look up then. 
Helen. To the hardest pi'oof of all 

1 am now bidden ; bid me not look up. 
Menelaus. She looks as when I led her 

on behind 

The torch and fife, and when the blush 
o'erspread 

Her girlish face at tripping in the myrtle 

On the first step before the wreathed 
gate. 

Approach nie. Fall not on thy knees. 
Helen. The hand 

Tliat is to slay me, best may slay me thus. 

I dare no longer see tlie light of heaven, 

Not thine — alas ! the light of heaven to 
me. 
Menelaus. Follow me. 

She holds out both arms — and now 

Drops them again. — Slie comes. — Why 
stoppest thou ? 
Helen. O Menelaus I could thy heart 
know mine, 

As once it did — for then they did con- 
verse, 

Generous the one, tlie other not un- 
worthy — [thin guilt. 

Thou wouldst find sorrow deeper even 



454 



BRITISH POETS 



Menelaus. And I must lead her by the 
liand again ? 
Nought shall persuade me. Never. She 

draws back — 
The true alone and loving sob like her. 
Come Helen ! [He takes her hand. 

Helen. O let never Greek see this I 

Hide me from Argos, from Amyclai 

hid me, 
Hide me from all. 

Menekms. Thy a^nguish is too strong 
For me to strive with. 

Helen. Leave it all to me. 

Menelaus. Peace ! Peace ! The wind. I 
hope, is fair for Sparta. 1847. 

^SCHYLOS AND SOPHOCLES 

Sophocles. Thou goest then, and leav- 

est none behind 
Worthy to rival thee ! 

^^schylos. Nay, say not so. 

Whose is the hand that now is pressing 

mine ? 
A hand I may not ever press again ! 
What glorious forms hath it brought 

boldly forth 
From Pluto's realm ! The blind old 

OEdipos 
Was led on one side by Antigone, 
Sophocles propped the other. 

Sophocles. Sophocles 

Sooth'd not Prometheus chain'd upon 

his rock, 
Keeping the vultures and the Gods 

away ; 
Sophocles is not greater than the cliief 
Who conquered Ilion, nor could he re- 
venge 
His murder, or stamp everlasting brand 
Upon the brow of that adultei-ous wife. 
^schylos. Live, and do more. 

Thine is the Lemnian isle. 
And thou has placed the arrows in the 

hand 
Of Philoctetes, hast assuaged his wounds 
And given his aid without which Greece 

had fail'd. 
Sophocles. I did indeed drive off the 

pest of flies ; 
We also have our pest of them which 

buzz 
About our honey, darken it, and sting ; 
We laugh at them, for under hands like 

OUl'S, 

Without the wing that Philoctetes 

shook. 
One single feather crushes the whole 

swarm. 



I must be grave. 

Hath Sicil}' such charms 
Above our Athens ? Many charms hath 

she, 
Bvit she hath kings. Accursed be the 
race ! 
JEschijlos. But where kings honor 
better men than they 
Let kings be honored too. 

The laurel crown 
Surmounts the golden ; wear it : and 
farewell. 1847. 

SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 

The tongue of England, that which 
myriads 

Have spoken and will speak, were para- 
lyzed 

Hereafter, but two mighty men stand 
forth 

Above the flight of ages, two alone ; 

One crying out, 

All nations spoke thro'' r/ie. 

The other : 

True ; and thro' this ti'umpet burst 

God's 7ford ; the fall of Angels, and the 
doom 

First of immortal, then, of mortal, Man. 

Glory ! he glory ! not to me, to God. 

1853. 

TO YOUTH 

Where art thou gone, light-ankled 
Youth ? 

With wing at either shoulder. 
And smile that never left thy mouth 

Until the Hours grew colder : 

Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near 

Tliat thou and I must part ; 
I doubted it : I felt no fear. 

No weight upon tlie heart : 

If auglit befell it. Love was by 

x\nd roll'd it off again ; 
So. if there ever was a sigh, 

'Twas not a sigh of pain. 

I may not call tiiee back ; but thou 

Returnest when the hand 
Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow 

His poppy-crested wand ; 

Tlien smiling eyes bend over mine, 
Tlien lips once pressed invite ; 

But sleep hath given a silent sign, 
And both, alas ! take flight. 

1853. 



I 



LANDOR 



455 



TO AGE 

Welcome, old friend ! These many 
years 

Have we lived door by door : 
The Fates have laid aside their shears 

Perhaps for some few more. 

I was indocile at an age 

When better boys were taught. 

But thou at length liast made me sage, 
If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, 

Too little they from me. 
But thou hast pointed well the pen 

That writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 

One vile, the otlier vain ; 
One's scourge, the other's telescope, 

I shall not see again : 

Rather what lies before my feet 

My notice shall engage — 
He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 

Dreads not the frost of Age. 

1853. 

THE CHRYSOLITES AND RUBIES 
BACCHUS BRINGS 

The chr^ysolites and rubies Bacchus 
brings 
To crown the feast where swells the 
broad-vein'd brow, 
Where maidens blush at what the min- 
strel sings. 
They who have coveted maj' covet 
now. 

Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape un- 
crushed. 
The peach of pulpy cheek and down 
mature. 
Where every voice (but bird's or child's) 
is hushed. 
And every thought, like the brook 
nigh, runs pure. 1853. 

SO THEN, I FEEL NOT DEEPLY ! 

So then, I feel not deeply ! if I did, 

I should have seized the pen and pierced 

therewith 
The passive world ! 

And thus thou reasonest ? 
Well hast thou known the lover's, not so 

well 



The poet's heart : while that heart 

bleeds, the hand 
Presses it close. Grief must run on and 

pass 
Into near Memory's more quiet shade 
Before it can compose itself in song. 
He who is agonized and turns to show 
His agony to those who sit around. 
Seizes the pen in vain : thought, fancy, 

power, 
Rush back into his bosom ; all the 

strength 
Of genius can not draw tliem into light 
From under mastering Grief ; but 

Memory, 
The Mvise's mother, nurses, rears them 

up. 
Informs, and keeps them with her all her 

days. 1853. 

YEARS, MANY PARTI-COLORED 
YEARS 

Years, many parti-colored years, 

Some have crept on, and some have 
flown 
Since first before me fell those tears 

I never could see fall alone. 
Years, not so many, are to come. 
Years not so varied, when from you 
One more will fall : when, carried home, 
I see it not, nor hear adieu. 1853. 

I WONDER NOT THAT YOUTH 
REMAINS 

I wonder not that Youth remains 
With you, wherever else she flies : 

Where' could she find such fair domains. 
Where bask beneath such sunny eyes ? 

1853. 

ON MUSIC 

Many love music but for music's sake, 
Many because her touches can awake 
Thoughts that repose within the breast 

half-dead. 
And rise to follow where she loves to 

lead. 
What various feelings come from days 

gone by ! 
What tears from far-off sources dim the 

eye ! 
Few, when light fingers with sweet 

voices play 
And melodies swell, pause, and melt 

away, 



4S6 



BRITISH POETS 



Mind how at every touch, at every tone, 
A spark of life hath glisten'd and hath 
gone. 1853. 

ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY 
HER SISTER 

Beautiful spoils ! borne off from van- 
quished death ! 
Upon my heart's high altar shall ye 
lie. 
Moved but by only one adorer's breath, 
Retaining youth, re wai'dingconstjmcy. 

1858. 

DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 

Death stands above me, whisisering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of liis strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 1853. 

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTH- 
DAY 

I STROVE with none ; for none was wortli 
my strife, 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, 
Art; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of 
hfe. 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 

1853. 

ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY 

It was a dream (ah ! what is not a 

dream ?) 
In which I wander'd thro' a boundless 

space 
Peopled by those that peopled earth ere- 

while. 
But who conducted me ? That gentle 

Power, 
Gentle as Death, Death's brother. On 

his brow 
Some have seen poppies ; and perliaps 

among 
The many flowers about his wavy curls 
Poppies there might be : roses I am sure 
I saw. and dimmer amanuitlis between. 
Lightly I thought I leaped across a 

grave 
Smelling of cool f resli turf, and sweet it 

smelt. 
I would, but must not linger ; I must on. 
To tell my dream before forgetfulness 
Sweeps it awaj^ or breaks or changes it. 



I was among the shades (if shades they 

were) 
And look'd around me for some friendly 

liand 
To guide me on my way, and tell me all 
That compass'd me around. I wish'd to 

find 
One no less firm or ready than the guide 
Of Alighieri, trustier far tlian he, 
Higher in intellect, more conversant 
With earth and heaven and whatso lies 

between. 
He stood before me — Southej-. 

" Tliou art lie," 
Said I, "whom I was wishing." 

•' That I know," 
Replied the genial voice and radiant eye. 
•• We may be question'd, question we 

may not ; 
For tliat might cause to bubble fortli 

again 
Some bitter spring whicli crossed the 

pleasantest 
And shadiest of our paths." 

" I do not ask," 
Said I, '' about your happiness ; I see 
The sanre serenitj' as when we walked 
Along the downs of Clifton. Fift}^ j'ears 
Have roU'd behind us since that summer- 
tide, 
Nor thirt}' fewer since along the lake 
Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd. 
Thro' tlie crisp waves I urged my side- 
ling bark. 
Amid sweet salutations off the shore 
From lordly Milan's proudly courteous 

dames." 
" Landor ! I well remember it,'" said he, 
'• I had just lost niy first-born only bo\% 
And tlien the heart is tender ; lightest 

things 
Sink into it, and dwell there evermore." 
The words were not yet spoken wlien 

the air 
Blew balmier ; and around the parent's 

neck 
An Angel threw his arms : it was that 

son. 
" Father! I felt you wished me," said 

the boy, 
" Behold me here ! " 

Gentle the sire's embrace, 
Gentle his tone. " See here your father's 

friend ! " 
He gazed into my face, then meekly 

said [ward 

" He whom my father loves hath his re- 
On earth ; a richer one awaits him 

here," 1853, 



LANDOR 



457 



ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH 

Friends ! hear the words my wander- 
ing thoughts would say, 

And cast them into shape some other 
day. 

Southey, my friend of forty years, is 
gone. 

And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone. 

1858. 

HEART'S-EASE 

There is a flower I wish to wear, 

But not until first worn by you . . 
Heart's-ease . . of all earth's flowers 
most rare ; 
Bring it ; and bring enough for two. 

1858. 

THE THREE ROSES i 

When the buds began to burst. 

Long ago, with Rose the First, 

I was walking ; joyous then 

Far above all other men, 

Till before us up tliere stood 

Britonferry's oaken wood. 

Whispering, " Htrppy as thou art, 

Happiness and thou must part." 

Many summers have gone by 

Since a Second Rt)se and I 

(Rose from tiiat same stem) have told 

This and other tales of old. 

She upon her wedding-day 

Carried home my tenderest lay : 

Fi'om her lap I now have heard 

Gleeful, cliirping, Rose the Third, 

Not for her this hand of mine 

Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine ; 

Cold and torpid it must lie, 

Mute the tongue and closed the eye. 

1858. 

LATELY OUR SONGSTERS LOI- 
TERED IN GREEN LANES 

Lately our songsters loiter'd in green 

lanes. 
Content to catch the ballads of the 

plains ; 
I fancied I had strength enough to 

climb 
A loftier station at no distant time, 
And might securely from intrusion doze 
Upon the flowei's thro' which Ilissus 

flows. 

' See pages 438 and 441. " Rose the Tliird " was 
tlie daughter of " the Second Rose," and thus the 
grand-niece of Rose Ayhner. 



In those pale olive grounds all voices 

cease, 
And from afar dust fills the imths of 

Gi'eece. 
]\Iy slumber broken and my doublet 

torn, 
I find the laurel also bears a thoi'n. 

186.3. 

THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA i 

Hippolyta. Eternal hatred I have 
sworn against 
The persecutor of my sisterhood ; 
In vain, proud son of ^geus, hast thou 

snapped 
Their arrows and derided them ; in vain 
Leadest tliou me a captive ; I can die, 
And die I will. 

Theseus. Nay ; many are the years 
Of youth and beauty for Hippolyta. 
Hippolyta. I scorn my youth, I hate 
my beauty. Go ! 
Monster ! of all the monsters in these 

wilds 
Most frightful and most odious to my 
sight. 
Theseus. I boast not that I saved tliee 
from the bow 
Of Scythian. 

Hippolyta. And for what ? To die 
disgraced. 
Strong as thou art, yet thou art not so 

strong 
As Death is, wlien we call him for sup- 
port. 
Theseus. Him too will I ward off ; he 
strikes me first, 
Hippolyta, long after, when these eyes 
Are closed, and when the knee that 

su])plicates 
Can bend no more. 
Hippolyta. Is the man mad? 
TJieseus. He is. 

Hippolyta. So, tliou canst tell one 
truth, however false 
In other things. 

Theseus. What other? Thou dost 
pause, 
And thine ej^es wander over the smooth 

turf 
As if some gem (but gem thou wearest 

not) 
Had fallen from the remnant of thy 
hair. 

• Written by Landor immediately before its 
jmblication, at tlie age of eighty-eight. Perhaps 
tlie only other example in literature of such 
vigor and creative power, at such an age, is that 
of Sophocles. 



458 



BRITISH POETS 



Hippolyta ! speak plainly, answer me, 
What have I done to raise thy fear or 
hate ? 
Hippolyta. Fear I desjiise, perfidy I 
abhor. 
Unworthy man ! did Heracles delude 
The maids,who trusted him ? 

Theseus. Did ever I ? 

Whether he did or not, they never told 

me : 
I would have chided him. 

Hippolyta. Tliou chide him ! thou ! 
The Spartan mothers well remember 
thee. 
Tlieseus. Scorn adds no beauty to the 
beautiful. 
Heracles was beloved by Omphale, 
He never parted from her, but obey'd 
Her slightest wish, as Tlieseus will Hip- 
polyta's. 
Hippolyta. Then leave me, leave me 
instantly ; I know 
The way to my own country. 

Tlieseus. This command. 

And only this, my heart must disobey. 
My country shall be thine, and' there 

thy state 
Regal. 
Hippolyta. Am I a child? Give me 
my own, 
And keep for weaker heads thy dia- 
dems. 
Thermodon I shall never see again, 
Brightest of rivers, into whose clear 

depth 
My mother plunged me from her 

warmer breast. 
And taught me early to divide the waves 
With arms each day more strong, and 

soon to chase 
And overtake the father swan, nor heed 
His hoarser voice or his uplifted wing. 
Where are my sisters ? are there any left ? 
Tlieseus. I liope it. 

Hippolyta. And I fear it : theirs may 
be 
A fate like mine ; vrhich, O ye Gods, for- 
bid ! 
Tlieseus. I pity thee, and would as- 
suage thy grief. 
Hippolyta. Pity me not : thy anger I 

could bear. 
Tlieseus. There is no place for anger 
where thou art. 
Coinmiseration even men may feel 
For those who want it : even the fiercer 

beasts / 
Lick the sore-wounded of a kindred 
race. 



Hearing their cry, albeit they may not 
help. 
Hippolyta. This i^ no falsehood : and 
can lie be false 
Who speaks it ? 

I remember not tlie time 
Wlien I have wept, it was so long ago. 
Thou forcest tears from me, because . . 

because . . 
I cannot hate thee as I ought to do. 

1863. 

AN AGED MAN WHO LOVED TO 
DOZE AWAY 

An aged man who loved to doze away 
An liour by daylight, for his eyes were 

dim. 
And lie had seen too many suns go down 
And rise again, dreamed that he saw two 

forms 
Of radiant beauty ; he would clasp them 

both, 
But botli flew stealthily away. He cried 
In his wild dream, 

" I never thought, O j'outh, 
That thou, altho' .so cherished, would'st 

return, 
But I did think that he who came with 

thee. 
Love, who could swear more sweetly 

than birds sing. 
Would never leave me comfortless and 

lone." 
A sigh broke through his slumber, not 

the last. 1863. 

WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU 
SMILED 

Well I remember how you smiled 

To see me write your name upon 
The soft sea-sand. "O.' what a child ! 

You think you're tvrifing ujwn stone ! " 
I have since written what no tide 

Shall ever wash away, what men 
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 

And find lanthe's name again. 

1863. 

TO MY NINTH DECADE 

To my ninth decade I have totter'd on. 
And no soft arm bends now my steps 
to steady ; 
She, who once led me where she would, 
is gone. 
So when he calls me. Death shall find 
me ready. 1863. 



I 



( 'No 

) ■ \ -v;^ --5J .cT -/- 1 ^-^ ^- / 

TENNYSON .- 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editiojn^s 

Complete Works, with Life, 10 volumes, The Macmillan Co. Poetical 
Works, Fliverside Edition, 6 volumes, Houghton & Mifflin. Complete 
Works, 6 volumes. The Macmillan Co. (in preparation). Complete Works, 
Globe Edition, 1 volume. * Complete Works, Cambridge Edition, 1 vol- 
ume, edited by W. J. Rolfe. Lyrical Poems, Selected by F. T. Palgrave, 
(Golden Treasury Series). Poems ; Chosen and edited by Henry Van 
Dyke ; Ginn & Co. 

Biography 

*Tennysoiv (Hallam), Alfred, Lord Tennyson, A Memoir, 2 volumes. 
(The Standard Biograpliy.) Benson (A. C), Tennyson (Little Biogra- 
pliies). Chesterton (G. K.), Tennyson (Bookman Series). Caky (E. L.), 
Tennyson. Horton (R. F.), Life of Tennyson. Lang (A.), Alfred Ten- 
nyson (Modern English Writers). Lyall (A. C), Tennyson (English 
Men of Letters Series). Waugh (A.), Life of Tennyson. 

Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

* Napier, The Homes and Haunts of Tennyson. Fields (A.), Authors 
and Friends. Fields ( J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. * Ritchie 
(Anne Thackeray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskiii, and the Brownings. 
Rawnsley (IT. D.), Memoi'ies of the Tennysons. Nicoll (W. R.), Liter- 
ary Anecdotes. Weld, Glimpses of Tennyson. * Hallam (A. H), Lit- 
erary Remains : On some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry, and on 
the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson (originally published in the Eng- 
lish Magazine, Aug., 1831). Wilson (John), Essays : Tennyson's Poems, 
(1882). Sterling (John), Essays and Tales: Tennyson's Poems, (1842). 
Spedding (James), Reviews : Tennyson's Poems, (1843). Horne (R. IL), 
A new Spirit of the Age, (1844). Lowell (J. R.), Conversations with the 
Poets: Keats and Tennyson, (1846). Kingsley (C), Miscellanies, (1850). 
Brimley (George), Tennyson's Poems, in Cambridge Essays, (1855). Mas- 
se y (Gerald), Tennyson and his Poetry, (1855). * Roscoe (W. C), Poems 
and Essays, Vol. II, (1860). * Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. II : 
Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning, (1864). * Taine, History of Eng- 
lish Literature, Vol. IV. Mill (J. S.), Early Essays. Taylor (Bayard), 
Critical Essays. Tuckerman (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. 

459 



46o TENNYSON 

Later Criticism 

Adams (F.), Essays in Modernity. Brooke (S. A.), Tennyson, his Art 
and Relation to Modern Life. Bradley, Commentary on In Memoriam. 
Chesterton (G. K.), Twelve Types. * Dowden (Edward), Studies in 
Literature : Tennyson and Browning. Everett (C. C), Essays : Tenny- 
son and Browning as Spiritual Forces. * Gates (L. E.), Studies and Ap- 
preciations. Gladstone (W. E.), Gleanings of Past Years. Gosse (E.), 
Questions at Issue : Tennyson — and after. Harrison (Frederic), Tenny- 
son, Raskin, IMill, and other literary Estimates. * Hutton (R. H.), Lit- 
erary Essays. Layard (G. S.), Tennyson and his Pre-Raphaelite Illus- 
trators. MiLSAND (J.), Litterature anglaise. Maoallum (M. W.), Tenny- 
son's Idylls of the King, and the Arthurian Story from the Sixteenth 
Century. Myers (F. W. H.), Science and a Future Life : Tennyson as a 
Prophet. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese. Noel (R. B. W.), Essays 
on Poetry and Poets. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of English 
Literature, Vol. I. Rearden (T. H.), Petrarch and Other Essays. Ro- 
bertson (J. M.), Essays toward a Critical Method : The Art of Tennyson. 
* Royce (J.), Studies of Good and Evil : Tennyson and Pessimism. 
Saintsbury (George), Corrected Impressions. Scherer (E.), Etudes de 
Littorature contemporaine, Vol. X. Sha.irp (J. C), Aspects of Poetry. 
Sneath, The Mind of Tennyson. *Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. II. * Swinburne, Mis- 
cellanies : Tennyson and Musset. * Van Dyke (Henry), Poetry of Ten- 
nyson. Whitman (Walt), Democratic Vistas. 

Bayne (P.), Lessons from my Masters. Buchanan (R.), Master Spirits. 
Cooke (G. W.), Poets and Problems. Dixon (W. M.), A Tennyson 
Primer. Farrar (F. W.), Men I have Known. Forman (H. B.), Our 
Living Poets. Heywood (J. C), How they Strike Me, these Authors : 
An over-rated Poet. Howells (W. D.), My literary Passions. Paul 
(II. W.), Men and Letters: Classical Poems of Tennyson. Rawnsley 
(II. D.), Memories of the Tennysons. Stanley (H. M.), Essays on Liter- 
ary Art. Walker (II.), The Greater Victorian Poets. 

Tributes in Verse 

* Watson (W.), * Lacrymse Musarum ; To Lord Tennyson ; The For- 
esters. * Huxley (T. II.), in Stedman's Victorian Anthology. Gilder 
(R. W.), B^ive Books of Verse. Bourdillon (F. W.), Sursum Corda. Etc. 

Bibliography, etc. 

Shepherd (R. II.), Bibliography of Tennyson. Grolier Club, Chrono- 
logical List of Tennyson's Works, etc. Collins, The Early Poems of 
Tennyson, with Bibliography and Various Readings. Dixon (W. M.), A 
Primer of Tennyson, with Bibliography, pp. 145-189. Luce (Morton), 
Handbook to the Works of Tennyson. Providence Public Library, Ten- 
nyson Reference List (Monthly Bulletin, Oct., 1897). Livingston (L. S.), 
Bibliography of the First Editions. 



TENNYSON 



I 



CLARIBEL 

A MELODY 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall ; 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
Witli an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone ; 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwliite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth. 

The babbling runnel crispetli. 
The lioUow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 1830. 

THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dovver'dwith the hate of liate, the scorn 
of scorn, 

The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
and ill. 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 

An open scroll, 

Before liim lay ; with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts 
were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 



Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue, 

And of so fierce a fliglit. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus tliey sung. 

Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower. 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving took root, and springing forth 
anew 
Wliere'er tliey fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, 
grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd nil abroad to fling 
Tlie winged shafts of truth. 

To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing s])ring 
Of Hope and Yontli. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams. 
Tho' one did fling tlie fire ; 
Heaven flow'd upon the sonl in man}"- 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multii^lied on truth, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreatlis of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sun- 
rise 
Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burn- 



mg eyes 
Melted like snow. 



461 



462 



BRITISH POETS 



Tliere was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 

Of her keen eyes 

And in lier raiment's hem was traced in 
flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred 
name. 
And wlien she spake, 

Her w^ords did gather thunder as they 
ran, 
And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. No 
sword 
Of wratli lier right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poefs scroll, and witli his 
word 
She shook tlie world. 1830. 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT 1 

PART I 

On either side the river lie 
Lung fields of barley and of rj-e, 
Tliat clothe tlie wold and meet the .sky ; 
And tliro" tlie field tlie road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
(lazing where tlie lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
Tiie shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot ; 
But who hath seen lier wave her hand ? 



IIT 



' See the Life of Tennyson, by his Son, I, 116- 



Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land. 
The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clejuly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot ; 
And b}^ the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands aiiy, 
Listening, whispers " 'T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART II 

There she weaA'es by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what tlie curse may be, 
And so she weavetli steadilj-. 
And little other care liatli she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a minor clear 
That hangs before her all the j'ear. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the liighwa,y near 

Winding down to Camelot ; 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surl^y village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shejiherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' tiie mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot ; 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed : 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 



TENNYSON 



463 



The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross kniglit for ever kneelVl 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden (lalaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot ; 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung. 
And as lie rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick- je weird shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet ami the lielmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot ; 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
Onburnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flovv'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from tlie river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left tlie loom. 
She made three paces thro' tlie room, 
She saw tlie water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



In the stormy east- wind sti'aining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complain- 
ing, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot : 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left iafloat, 
And round about the prow she wi'ote 

TIte Lady of Shalott. 



And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay: 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
Tliat loosely flew to left and riglit — 
Tiie leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They lieard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly 

Turn'd to towerd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in iier song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tow^er and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses liigh. 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here? 
And ill the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer. 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 1833. 

SONG: THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 

It is the miller's daughter. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear ; 

For hid in ringlets dav and night, 

I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 



464 



BRITISH POETS 



And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist. 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so close and tiglit. 

Ami I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon lier balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her siglis ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 

1833. 

CENONE 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Tlian all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the 

glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine 

to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
Tlie lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below 

them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the cloven 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Beliind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands iip and takes the morning ; but 

in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 

rest. 
Slie, leaning on a fragment twined with 

vine, 
Sang to the stillness till the mountain- 
shade' 
Sloped downward to her seat from the 

upper cliff. 

" O mother Ida, many fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 

hill ; 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass ; 
Tlie lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone, [dead. 

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are 



The purple flower droops, the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

love. 
My heart is breaking and mj^ e\es are 

dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hills, O 

caves 
That house the cold-crown'd snake ! O 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River God. 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up 

all 
My sorrow with my .song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather 'd shape ; for it 

maj'^ be 
That, while I si^eak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 

woe. 

"O mother Ida, manj-fountain'd Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 

I waited underneath the dawning hills ; 

Aloft the mountain-lawn was dewy- 
dark. 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine. 

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 
white-hooved. 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O motiier Ida, barken ere I die. 
Far off the torrent call'd me from the 

cleft ; 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down- 

dropt eyes 
I sat alone ; white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard 

skin 
Dropp'd from his shoulder, but his sunny 

hair 
Cluster "d about his temj^les like a God's; 
And his clieek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all 

my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere 

he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, barken -ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 



TENNYSON 



465 



Disclosed II fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
Tiiat smelt ambrosially, and while I 

look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart : 

' My own QEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingraven 
"For the most fair," would seem to 

award it thine, 
As lovelier tlian whatever Oread haunt 
Tlie knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace. 
Of movement, and the charm of married 

brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He pressed the blossom of his lips to 

mine. 
And added, ' This was cast upon tlie 

board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the 

Gods 
R;inged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 

'twere due ; 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common 

voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming eacli 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 

cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 

pine. 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, vm- 

heard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris, judge of 

Gods." 

'• Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon ; one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides. 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, [fire, 
And at tlieir feet the crocus brake like 
Violet, amaracus, and aspliodel. 
Tjotos and lilies ; and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 
vine, [toon 
This way and that, in many a wild fes- 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 
and thro'. 

30 



" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and 

lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her to 

whom 
Coming thro' heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, witli one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from 

many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed 

with corn. 
Or labor'd mine vmdrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, 'and homage, tax and 

toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of 

power, 
' Whicii in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neigh- 
bor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-stafif. Such boon 

from me, 
From me, heayen's (i[ueen, Paris, to thee 

king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, 

in power 
Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 

fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought 

of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 



466 



BRITISH POETS 



O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 
spear 

Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 

The while, above, her full and earnest 
eye 

Over her snow-cold breast and angry 
cheek 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made re- 
ply : 

' Self -reverence, self-knowledge, self- 
control. 

These three alone lead life to sovereign 
power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live by 
law, 

Acting the law we live by without fear ; 

And, because riglit is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence. ' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed. 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, O, rest tliee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to 

thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, uniil endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 

me ! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as tlie foam, nevv-batlied in 

Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 



From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder ; from the violets her light 

foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

" Dear motlier Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in lier mild eyes. 
The herald of lier triumpli, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, • I promise 

thee 
Tlie fairest and most loviiig wife in 

Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd ; I shut my sight 

for fear ; 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his 

arm. 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she witlidrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — whv faii'est wife? am I not 

fair? ' 
My love liatli told me so a thousand 

times. 
Metliinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I ])ast by, a wild and wanton pard. 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful 

tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 

loving is she ? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my 

arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips 

pressed 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling 

dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest 

pines, 
My tall dark pines, that plumed tiie 

craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all be- 
tween 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose tliick mysterious boughs in the 
dark morn 



TENNYSON 



467 



Tlie panther's roar came muffled, while 

I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Sliall lone Qlliione see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them over- 
laid 
With narrow moonlit slips of silver 

cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trem- 
bling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in tlie ruin'd 

folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the 

glens. 
Or tlie dry thickets, I could meet with 

her 
The Abominable, tliat uninvited came 
Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hatii he not sworn his love a thousand 

times. 
In this green valley, under this green 

hill. 
Even on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with 

tears "? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy heaven, how canst thou see my 

face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight ? [cloud, 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating 
There are enough unhappy on this earth. 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live ; . 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all mj' soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart with- 
in. 

Weigh heavy on my eyelids ; let ine die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do sliape themselves within me, more 

and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Deail sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 



Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of lier child 
Ere it is born. Her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O, mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me. O earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to 

me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and 

go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 

forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I 

know 
That wheresoe'er lam bj' night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 

18:^3. 

THE SISTERS 

We were two daugliters of one race ; 
Slie was tlie fairest in the face. 

Tlie wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

She died ; she went to burning flame ; 
She mix'd her ancient blood witii shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and 

late. 
To win Jiis love I lay in wait ! 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest. 

His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
Hut I loved his beauty passing well. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 



468 



BRITISH POETS 



I rose up in the silent night ; 

I nxade my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapped his body in tlie sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 1833. 

THE PALACE OF ART i 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and ca- 
rouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well. " 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burn- 
ish' d brass, 
I chose. Tlie ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And "while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
fast sliade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily: 

" Trust me, in bliss 1 shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for 
me. 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Four courts I made, East, West and South 
and North, 
Ineacli a squared lawn, where from 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
forth 
A flood of fountain -foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branclTd like mighty 
woods, 

> See the Life of Tennyson, I, 118-121. 



Echoing all niglit to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods ; 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

Tliat lent broad verge to distant lands. 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipped down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one 
swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought," And who shall gaze 
upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
AVhile this great bow will waver in the 
sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced, 
Would seeni slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches inter- 
laced. 
And tipped with frost-like spires. 

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 
pass. 
Well-pleased, from room \o room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace 
stood. 
All various, eacli a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue, 
Sliowing a gaudy summer-morn. 
Where with pufi'd cheek tlie belted 
liunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 



J 



TENNYSON 



469 



One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of 
sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering 
land. 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves, 
You seem'd to hear them climb and 
fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing 
caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of tluxnder brooding 
low , 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. Be- 
hind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black witli stones 
and slags ; 
Beyond, a line of lieigiits ; and higlier 
All barrVl with long white cloud the 
scornful crags ; 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one. an English home — gray twi- 
liglit pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stoi'ed, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair. 
As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was 
there. 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneatli branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear -wall'd city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pijies, her Iiair 
Wound with white roses, slept Saint 
Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 



Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice, 
Tlie tluone of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd witii spice. 

Or sweet Europa"s mantle blew un- 
clasp'd , 
From off her shoulder backward borne; 
From one hand droop"d a crocus ; one 
iiand grasp'd 
Tiie mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush 'd Ganymede, liis rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the eagle's down. 
Sole as a flying star shot thro" the skj'^ 
Above the pillar 'd town. 

Nor tliese alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself was there. 
Not less than life design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 
that swung. 
Moved of themselves, with silver 
sounds ; 
And with clioice paintings of wise men 
I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For thei'e was Milton like a seraph 
strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild : 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd 
his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon liis 
breast. 
From cheek and throat and cliin. 



470 



BRITISH POETS 



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
stings ; 
Here play'd. a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an atlilete, strong to break or 
bind 
All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man 
declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod ; and those great 
bells 
Began to chime. She took her throne ; 
She sat betwixt the shining oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost oriels' colored 
flame 
Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Ver- 
ulam. 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names that in their motion 
were 
Full-welling fountain-heads of change. 
Betwixt the slender sliafts were blazon'd 
fair 
In diverse raiment strange ; 

Thro' whicli the lights, rose, amber, em- 
erald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Mem- 
non, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than mj-^ soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful 
mirth. 
Joying to feel lierself alive, 



Lord over Nature, lord of the visible 
eartli. 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with lierself : " All these are 
mine, 
,\ntt let tlie world have peace or wars, 
"Tis one to me." She — when young 
niglit divine 
CrownM dying day witli stars. 

Making sweet close of his delicioiis toils — 

Lit liglit in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollo w'd moons of gems, 

To mimic lieaven ; and clapped her hands 
and cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich and wide 
Be flatter'd to the lieight. 

'• O all things fair to sate mv varic^us 



eyes 



shapes and hues that please me well ! 

silent faces of the Great and W^ise, 

My Gods, with wliom I dwell ! 

" O Godlike isolation wliich art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
AVhat time I watch the darkening droves 

of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy slouglis they roll a prurient 

skin, 
Tliey graze and wallow, breed and 

sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 

And drives them to the deep." 

Tlien of the moral instinct would she 
prate 
And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by right of fuU-accomplish"d 
Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

■'I take possession of man's mind and 
deed. 
I care not what the sects may bi-awl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed, 

But contemplating all." 

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flasli'd thro' Jier as she sat alone. 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 



TENNYSON 



471 



And soshe tliroveaiicl prosper'd ; so three 
years 
She prosper'd ; on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his 
ears. 
Struck thro' witii pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly. 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

AVhen she would think, where' er she 
turuM her sight 
The airy liand confusion wrouglit, 
Wrote, '■ Mene, mene."'a.nd divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 
Scorn of herself; again, froin out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this ni}'^ place of 
strength." she said, 
'' My spacious mansion built forme, 
AVhereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears 
of blood. 
And horrible nightmares. 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
flame. 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she 
came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul. 
Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal ; 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
sand. 
Left on the shore, that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from 
the land 
Their moon led waters white ; 

A star that with the choi'al starry dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 



The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one nx'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
ourl'd. 
" No voice," 8he shriek'd in that lone 
hall, 
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 
this world ; 
One deep, deep silence all ! '' 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort any where ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 

And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime. 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
round 
With blackness as a solid wall , 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall ; 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow. 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moonrise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a 
sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I 
have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She liowl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four years where wholly 
finished, 
Siie threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
said, 
" Where I may mourn and pi'ay. 



472 



BRITISH POETS 



" Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
that are 
So liglitly, beautifully built ; 
Perchanoe I may return with others 
there 
When I have purged my guilt." 

1833. 

THE LOTOS -EATERS 

'•Courage!" lie said, and pointed to- 
ward the land, 

" This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon." 

In the afternoon they came unto a land 

In which it seemed always afternoon. 

All round the coast the languid air did 
swoon , 

Breatliing like one that hath a weary 
dream. 

Full-faoeil above the valley stood the 
moon ; 

And, like a downward smoke, the slender 
stream 

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 
did seem. 

A land of streams ! .some, like a down- 
ward smoke. 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 

did go ; 
And some thro' wavering lights and 

shadows broke. 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward 

flow 
From the inner land ; far off, three 

mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 
Stood sunset-flush'd ; and, dew'd witli 

sliowery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West ; thro' mountain clefts 

the dale 
Was seen far inland, and the j-ellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
And meadow, set with slender galin- 

gale : 
A land where all things always seem'd 

the same ! 
And round about the keel with faces 

pale. 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
Tlie mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters 

came. 



Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of tiiem 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 

wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores : and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he .seem'd, yet all awake. 
And nuisic in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 
sand. 

Between the sun and moon ujmn the 
shore ; 

And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 

Of child, and w^ife and slave ; but ever- 
more 

Most weary seem'd tlie sea, weary the 
oar, 

Weary the wandering fields of barren 
foam. 

Then some one said. " We will return no 
more ; " 

And all at once tliey sang, " Our island 
home 

Is far bej'ond the wave; we will no longer 
roam." 

CHORIC SONG 



There is sweet music here that softer 

falls 
Tlian petals from blown roses on tlie 

grass. 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadow}^ granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from 

the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- 
ness, 



TENNYSON 



473 



And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 
tress, 

While all things else have rest from 
weariness ? 

All things have rest : why should we 
toil alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of things. 

And make perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown: 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease from wanderings. 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
balm ; 

Nor liarken what the inner spirit sings, 

'• Tliere is no joy but calm ! '" — 

Why should we only toil, the roof and 
crown of things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 

bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in tlie moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer liglit, 
Tlie full-juiced apple, waxing over- 
mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted lengtii of days 
Tlie flower ripens in its place. 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no 

toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Deatli is the end of life ; ah, why 

Shovild life all labor be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward 
fast. 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will 
last? 

All things are taken from us, and be- 
come 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful 
past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we 
have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward 
the grave 



In silence — ripen, fall, and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, 
or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the doAvn- 

ward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber 

light. 
Which will not leave the nij-rrh-bush on 

the height ; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speecli ; 
Eating the Lotos day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the 

beach. 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray : 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melan- 
choly ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory. 
With tliose old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an 

urn of brass ! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears ; but all hath 

sutfer'd change ; 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold. 
Our sons inherit us, our looks are 

strange. 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel 

sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in 

Troy. 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile ; 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath. 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many 

wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 

pilot-stars. 



. # 



474 



BRITISH POETS 



But, propped on beds of amaranth and 

moly, 
How sweet — while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowly — 
With half-drop|ied eyelid still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch tlie long bright river drawing 

slowly 
His waters from tlie purple Iiill — 
To hear the dewy eclioes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the tiiick-twined 

A'ine — 
To watch the cmerald-color'd water fall- 
ing 
Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath 

divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling 

brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 

beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak. 

The Lotos blows by every winding- 
creek ; 

All day the wind breatlies low with mel- 
lower tone ; 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round tlie s[)icy downs the 
yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 

We have had enougli of action, and of 
motion we, 

RoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 
when the surge was seething fi-ee. 

Where the wallowing monster .spouted 
his foam-fountains in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath, and keej} it witli 
an equal mind, 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie 
reclined 

On the hills like Gods together, careless 
of mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and tiie 
bolts are hurlM 

Far below them in the valleys, and the 
clouds are lightly curl'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled with 
the gleaming world ; 

Where they smile in secret, looking over 
wasted lands. 

Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fieiy 
sands. 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 
sinking ships, and praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 



Steaming up, a lamentation and an an- 
cient tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the sf)il. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with 

enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 

"t is whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, otliers in El^-sian 

valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the dee^i mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar ; 
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 

wander more. 1883. 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I READ, before my eyelids dropped their 
shade, 
'■ The Legend of Good Women,'' long 
ago 
Sung by the morning star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts tliat 
fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his 
art 
Held me above the subject, as strong 
gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
my heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales. 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In 
every land 
I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in 
iiand 
Tiie downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient 
song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 

stars. 



TENNYSON 



475 



And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clang- 
ing hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctu- 
aries, 
And forms that pass'd at windows and 
on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold, heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall, 
Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst tliro' with 
heated blasts 
Tliat run before the fluttering tongues 
of fire ; 
White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 
masts. 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates. 
And liush'd seraglios. 

So sliape chased shape as swift as, when 
to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self- 
same vvay, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 
sand. 
Torn from the fringe of si^ray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 
Resolved on noble things, and strove 
to speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then, I know not how. 

All those sharp fancies, bj' down-lapsing 
tliought 
StreamM onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 
Roird on each other, rounded, smooth'd, 
and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 



At last methought that I had wander'd 
far 
In an old wood ; fresh- wash 'd in coolest 
dew 
The maiden splendors of the morning 
star 
Sliook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and 
lean 
Upon the dusky brushwot)d vmder- 
neatli 
Their broad curved branches, fledged 
witli clearest green. 
New from its silken sheath. 

TJie dim red Morn had died, her journey 
done, 
And with dead lips .smiled at the 
twilight plain. 
Half-fallen across the threshold of the 
sun. 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead 
air. 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to 
tree. 
And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
burn'd 
Tlie red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I 
knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long. rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew. 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

Tlie smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 
The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear undertone 
Thrill'd thro" mine ears in that un bliss- 
ful clime, [own 
" Pass freely thro' ; the wood is all thine 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call. 
Stiller than cliisell'd marble, standing 
there : 



476 



BRITISH POETS 



A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech ; she turning 
on my face 
The star-like sorrows of immoi'tal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in lier place : 

" I had great beauty ; ask tliou not my 

name : [tiny. 

No one can be more wise than des- 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er 

I came 

I brought calamity." 

"No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair 
field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died." 
I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse. 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws : 
" My youth," she said, " was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

*' I was cut off from liope in tliat sad 
place 
Which men call'd Aulis in those iron 
years : 
My fatlier held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded wdth my tears, 

"Still strove to speak: my voice was 
thick with sighs 
A.S in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with 
wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay 
afloat ; 
The crowds, the temijles, waver 'd, and 
the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's 
throat — 
Touch'd — and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward 
brow : 
"I would the white cold heavy- 
plunging foam, 
Whirled by the wind, had rollM me 
deep below. 
Then when I left my home." 



Her slow full words sank thro' the si- 
lence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried 
" Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, tlironed on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 
roll'd ; 
A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, be- 
gan : 
" I govern'd men by change, and so I 
sway'd 
All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen 
a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

•• The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my liumor ebb and flow. 
I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

"Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
mine eve 
Tliat dull cold-blooded Cfesar. Pry thee, 
friend. 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

" Tlie man, my lover, Avith whom I rode 
sublime 
On Fortune's neck ; we sat as God by 
God: 
Tlie Nilus would have risen before his 
time 
And flooded at our nod. 

"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and 
lit 
Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. O. 
my life 
In Egypt ! O, the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
war's alarms. 
My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leaped into my arms, 
Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth witli life, I would not 
brook my fear 



I 



TENNYSON 



477 



Of the other ; with a worm I balk'd his 
fame. 
What else was left? look here ! " — 

With that she tore her robe apart, and 
half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to 
sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 
laugh, 
Showing the aspic's bite. — 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
found 
Me lying dead, mj' crown about my 
brows, 
A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
ctiange 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight ; 
Because with sudden motion from tlie 
ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fiU'd 
witli light 
Tlie interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love ti^^t his keenest 
darts ; 
As once they drew into two burning 
rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the 
lawn, 
And singing clearer than the crested bird 
That claps his wings at dawn : 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine ; 



All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the 
door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 

and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when 

tliat flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 

To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 
From l\lizpali's tower'd gate with wel- 
come light. 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leaped forth : " Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd 
answer higli : 
"Not so, nor once alone; a thovisand 
times 
I wcfuld be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- 
neath. 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to 
fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

'•My God, my land, my father — these 
did move 
Me from my bliss of life that Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of 
love 
Down to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, 'No fair 
Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all 
joy. 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal 
bower, [glow 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
Beneath the battled tower. 



478 



BRITISH POETS 



"The light wliite cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one 
bj- one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame, 
And thunder on tlie everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief be- 
came 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

"When the next nioon was roll'd into 
the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my 
desire. 
How^ beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one tliought to 
dwell. 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 
On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips ; she left me where 
I stood : 
"Glory to God," she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 
As one that from a casement leans his 
head. 
When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
denly. 
And the old year is dead. 

" Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 
Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and look 
on me ; 
I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
fair, 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor ! 
O me, that I sliould ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 



She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust ; 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you 
tameh- died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
and thrust 
Tlie dagger tlu'o' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mys- 
tery 
Of folded sleep. Tlie captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
dai'k 
Ere I saw her who clasp'd in her last 
trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 
Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her 
king. 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath. 
Sweet as new buds in spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what 
dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest. 
Desiring wliat is mingled with j^ast 
years. 
In yearnings that can never be expressed 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cuU'd with 
choicest art. 
Failing to give tiie bitter of the sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 1833. 



TENNYSON 



479 



SAINT AGNES' EVE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkUng to the moon ; 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 

May my soul follow soon I 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping witli the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord. 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first siaowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To tliat I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens. O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 
And strovvs her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

Tlie Bridegroom with his bride ! 

1837. 

YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT 
EASE 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. 

Within tliis region I subsist. 

Wliose spirits falter in the mist. 
And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 
That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends or 
foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 
A land of just and old renown. 
Where Freedom slowly broadens down 

From precedent to precedent ; 



Wliere faction seldom gathers head. 
But, by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some dift'usive thought 

Hath time and space to work and sjjread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinions, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute. 

Tho' power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should flU and choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 
183S. 1842. 

OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE 
HEIGHTS 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet ; 

Above her shook the starry lights ; 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gatlier"d in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stepped she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part b}' part to men reveal'd 

The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 
From her isle-altar gazing down. 

Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks. 
And, king-like, wears the crown. 

Her oi^en eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand j-ears 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and 
shine. 
Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 
Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 

1833. 1843. 



4^0 



BRITISH POETS 



LOVE THOU THY LAND 

Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied past, and used 
Within the present, but transfused 

Thro' future time b}^ power of thought ; 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
Love, tliat endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers, and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide tiie ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald. Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the 
years : 

Cut Prejudice against the grain. 

But gentle words aie always gain ; 
Eegard the weakness of thy peers. 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise — 
It grows to guerdon after-days. 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw, 
Not master'd by some modern term. 
Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm ; 

And in its season bring the law, 

That from Discussion's lip maj' fall 
With Life tliat, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds. 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm. 
And moist and dry. devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 



We all ai"e changed by still degrees, 
All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that which 

flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
Tiie Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour. 

But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 

And round them sea and air are dark 
With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O, yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Trutli 

Across the brazen bi'idge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall close. 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' .shame and guilt. 
But with his hand against the liilt. 

Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and 

woi'd. 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword awaj' — 



TENNYSON 



481 



Would love the gleams of good that 
broke 

From either side, nor veil his e^'es ; 

And if some dreadful need should rise 
Would strike, and tirmlj^ and one stroke. 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 

1S33. 1843. 

MORTE D' ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle rollM 
Among the mountains by tlie winter sea, 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about tUeir lord. 
King Arthur ; then, because his wound 

was deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, tlie last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
Tliat stood on a dark strait of bari'en land. 
On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. * 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

kniglits 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
Tliey sleep — the men I loved. I think 

tliat we 
Sliall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made,— 
Tlio' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will be 

be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou tlierefore take my brand Excali- 

bur. 
Which was my pride ; for thou remem- 

berest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an 

arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

31 



Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king; 
And. wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known. 
But now delay not ; take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere; 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man. 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 

word." 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 

stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Sin-ill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of tlie lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Exca- 
libur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 

ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against 

the hilt ; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth 

work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift 

mind, 
In act to throw ; but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about tJie 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : [I gave ? 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which 



482 



BRITISH POETS 



What is it thou hast seen, or what hast 

heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
" I lieard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and tliy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 
For surer sign had foUow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge tliee, quickly go 

again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside tlie 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought : 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 

His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away. 

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 

Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good shovild follow this, if this 

were done ? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to dis- 
obey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king de- 
mand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The king is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to af tertime, but empty breatli 
And rumors of a doubt? but were this 

kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthui-'s sword, Excali- 

bur, [lake ; 

Wrouglit by the lonely maiden of the 



Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the liills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence ; 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 
So spake he, clouded with liis own con- 
ceit, 
And hid Excalil)ur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
" What is it thou hast .seen, or what liast 

heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
" I heard the water lapping on tlie crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Un knightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of tlie power in liis eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 

liilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may piosper, get 

thee hence ; 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibiu-, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
And strongly wiieeFd and tfirew it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By niglit, with noises of the northern sea. 



TENNYSON 



483 



So flash'd iiud fell the brand Excalibiii- ; 
But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
ful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brand- 

ish'd him 
Three times, and drew liim vxnder in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out ; what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewliere, till I 

die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as j^ouder iiilt. 
Then with both hands I llnng liim, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, beliold an arm. 
Clotlied in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him 
Tiiree times, and drew him under in 

the mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing liard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I 

M'ere gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin : yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I siiall 

die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half 

rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes • 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would liave spoken, but he found 

not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee. 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. [hard, 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 



Like one that feels a nightmare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the king. 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

" Quick, quick I 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge 

to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as 

he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove liim 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, 

as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sliarp-smitten with tlie dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! tlie level lake. 
And tlie long glories of the winter moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath thena ; and descending thej- 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream 

—by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voic-e, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then mvirmur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There 

those three queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the king, 

and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of tliem 

all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed tlie shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands. 
And call'd him by his name, complaining 

loud, 



484 



BRITISH POETS 



And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood ; for all his face 

was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were pai'ch'd 

with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the king ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I 

go? 
Where shall I hide mj^ forehead and my 

eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead. 
When every morning brovight a noble 

chance. 
And ever}' chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
■ Such times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of mjurh. 
But now the whole round table is dis- 
solved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the 

barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 

me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done . [thou. 

May He within himself make pure ! but 



If thoushouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of 

God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
AVith these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not luiil, or rain, or any snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd. happy, fair with 

orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound."' 
So said he, and the barge with oar and 

sail 
Moved from tlie brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swartiiy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the A-erge 

of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 
1S35. 1843. 1869.1 

DORA 2 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often look'd at 

them 
And often thought, "I'll make them 

man and wife." 

'In 1809 t\\e Morie (V Arthur Vfa.% incorporated 
in tlie Passing of Arttiur, tlie last of tlie Idylls i>f 
the King. 

2 See the Life of Tenuyson. I, liir.-G, ami 365. 



TENNYSON 



485 



Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yearn'd toward William ; but the 

youth, because 
He had always been with her in the 

house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said : 

" My son, 
I maiTied late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; tiirifty too bej^ond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora. Take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage night 

and day, 
For many years." But William an- 
swered short : 
" I cannot marr}' Dora ; by my life. 
I will not marry Dora ! " Tlien the old 

man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer 

thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 

it;. 
Consider, William, take a month to 

think. 
And let me have an answer to my wish. 
Or, by the Lord tliat made me, you shall 

pack. 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madh% bit his lips. 
And broke awa}% The more he look'd at 

her 
Tiie less he liked her ; and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then be- 
fore 
The month was out he left his father's 

house. 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, wlien the bells were ringing, 

Allan caird 
His niece and said : " M}^ girl, I love you 

well ; [son , 

But if you speak with him that was my 



Or change a word with her he calls his 

wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
" It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will 

change ! " 
And days went on, and there was born 

a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him, 
And day by day he passed his father's 

gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father helped 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 
" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 

gone. 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
Y'ou know there has not been for these 

five years 
So full a harvest. Let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not, for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to 

him, [reap'd, 

But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers 



486 



BRITISH POETS 



And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his 

hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work. 
And came and said : "Where were you 

yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? AVhat are you 

doing liere ? "' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's 

child ! " 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

tliat 's gone ! " 
And Allan said : " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my dut}% and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the 

boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more." 
So saying, he took the boy that cried 

aloud 
Ajid struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the bo3''s ciy catne to her from the 

field 
JMore and more distant. She bow'd down 

her head, 
Remembering the day when first she 

came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret : and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 

stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 



Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 
To God, that help'd lier in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said : ' ' M}^ uncle took the 

boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with 

you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary : '* Tliis shall never 

be, 
That thou shouldst take mv trouble on 

thy.self : 
And, now I think, he siiall not have the 

boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 
His motlier. Therefore thou and I will 

go. 
And I will have mj^ boy, and bring him 

home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back. 
But if lie will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house, 
And work for William's child, until he 

grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the 

farm. 
The door was off the latch ; they peep'd, 

and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his 

arm, 
And clapped him on the hands and on the 

cheeks. 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch and sparkled by the 

fire. 
Then thev came in ; but when the bov 

iierield 
His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
And Allan set him down, and Mar}^ 

said : 
'•O father! — if you let me call you 

so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I 

come 
For Dora ; take her back, she loves you 

well. 
O Sir. when William died, he died at 

peace 



I 



TENNYSON 



487 



With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said, 
He could not ever rue his marrj'ing me — 
1 had been a patient wife ; but, Sir, he 

said 
Tiiat he was wrong to cross liis father 

thus. 
' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may lie 

never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then 

lie turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 
Will make liim iiard, and he will learn 

to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora 

back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid lier face 
By Mary. There was silence in tlie 

room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sol)s : 
" I liave been to blame — to blame. I 

have kiir<l my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 

dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to 

blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 

times. 
And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 

AVilliam's cliild 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together, and as years 
Went forward Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death, 

1843. 

ULYSSES 1 

It little ])rofits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren 

crags. 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 

' See the Life of Tennyson, I, 196. 



I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have en- 
joy "d 
Greatly, liave sufifer'd greatly, both witii 

those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' .scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name ; 
For alwajs roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known, — cities of 

men 
And manners, climates, councils, 

governments. 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all,— 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world whose 

margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
As tlio' to breathe were life ! Life jiiled 

on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains ; but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things : and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle, — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties decent, not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 

mine. 

There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her 
sail ; 
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My 
mariners. 



BRITISH POETS 



Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and 

thouglit with me, — 
That ever witli a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and op- 
posed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I 

are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 
Death closes all ; but something ere the 

end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks ; 
The long day wanes ; the slow moon 

climbs ; the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, 

my friends 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push otf , and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down ; 
It may be w^e shall touch the Happy 

Isles, [knew. 

And see the great Achilles whom we 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 

tlio' [old days 

AVe are not now that strength wliich in 
Moved earth and heaven, that which we 

are. we are, — 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong 

in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 

yield. 1843. 

LOCKSLEY HALL i 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while 

as yet 't is early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, 

sound upon the bugle-horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of 
old, the curlews call, 

Dreary gleams about the moorland fly- 
ing over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance 
overlooks the sandy tracts, 

And the lioUow ocean-ridges roaring 
into cataracts. 

* See the Life of Tennyson, I, 176 and 195. 



Many a night from yonder ivied case- 
ment, ere I went to rest. 

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 
to the west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 

thro' the mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled 

in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nour- 
ishing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the 
long result of time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a 

fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the 

promise that it closed ; 

When I dipped into the future far as hu- 
man eye covild see. 

Saw the vision of the world and all the 
wonder that would be. — 

In the spring a fuller crimson conies 

upon the robin's breast ; 
In the spring the wanton lapwing gets 

himself another crest ; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on 
the burnish'd dove ; 

In the spring a young man's fancy light- 
ly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner 
than should be for one so young. 

And her eyes on all my motions with a 
mute observance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, 
and speak the truth to me. 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 
being sets to thee."' 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 

color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in 

the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with 
a sudden storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deejaly dawning in the 
dark of hazel ej'es — 

Saying, " I have hid ray feelings, fear- 
ing they should do me wrong ; " 

Saying, " Dost tlmu love me. cousin ?" 
weeping, "I have loved thee 
long." 



TENNYSON 



489 



Love took up the glass of time, and 
turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself 
in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote 
on all the chords with miglit : 

Smote tlie chord of Self, that, trembling, 
past in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we 

hear the copses ring. 
And her wliisper tluong'd my pulses 

with tlie fulness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we 

watch the stately ships. 
And our spirits rush'd together at the 

touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my 

Amy. mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary, moorland ! O the 

barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser 
than all songs have sung. 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile 
to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? having 

known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a nar- 
rower heart than mine ! 

Yet it sliall be ; thou shalt lower to his 

level day by day. 
What is fine within thee growing coarse 

to sympathize with claj'. 

As the luisband is, the wife is ; thou art 

mated with a clown, 
And tlie grossness of his nature will 

have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 
have spent its novel force. 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? liis eyes are heavy ; think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him, it is tliy duty ; kiss him, 
take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 

is overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fmunes. tniicli 

him with tliy lighter thought. 



He will answer to the purpose, easy 

things to understand — 
Better tiiou wert dead before me, tho' I 

slew thee witii my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden 
from the lieart's disgrace, 

Roird in one another's arms, and silent 
in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin 
against the strength of jouth ! 

Cursed be the social lies that warj) us 
from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 

honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be tlie gold that gilds the 

straiten 'd forehead of the fool ! 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — 
Hadst thou less unworthy |)roved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee 
more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that 
which bears but bitter fruit? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, tlio' my 
heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-winter'd crow that leads 
the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the 

records of tiie mind ? 
Can I part her from lierself , and love her, 

as I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one tliat perish 'd ; sweetly 
did she speak and move ; 

Such a one do I remember, whom to look 
at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 

for the love slie bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly ; love is 

love for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this 

is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is re- 

membei'ing happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, 
lest tliy heart be put to proof. 

In tlie dead unhappy niglit, and when 
the rain is on the roof. 



49° 



BRITISH POETS 



Like a dog, he liunts in dreams, and 
thou art staring at the wall. 

Where the dying night-lamp flickers, 
and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, 
pointing to his diainken sleep, 

To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the 
tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never,'* 
whisper'd by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking an- 
cient kindness on thy pain. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get 
thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for 

a tender voice will crj'^. 
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain 

thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest 

rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 

from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with 

a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his ; it will be 

worthy of the two. 

O, I .see thee old and formal, fitted to thy 

petty part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching 

down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feel- 
ings — she herself was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish 
in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! where- 
fore should I care ? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I 
wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, 
lighting upon days like these ? 

Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens 
but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all 

the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy ; what is that 

which I should do ? 



I had been content to perish, falling on 

the foeman's ground. 
When the ranks are roU'd in vapor, and 

the winds are laid with sound. 

But tlie jingling of the guinea heli^s the 

hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarl- 
ing at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn 

that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou 

wondrous Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild ijulsation that I 

felt before the strife. 
When I heard mj' days before me, and 

tlie tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that 
tlie coming years would jneld. 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he 
leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky higiiwMy 

near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in iieaven the light of London flaring 

like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be 

gone before him then. 
Underneath tlie light he looks at, in 

among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
reaping something new ; 

That which tliey have done but earnest 
of the things that they shall do. 

Fori dipped into the future, far as human 

eye covild see. 
Saw tlie Vision of the world, and all the 

wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill witli commerce, ar- 
gosies of magic sails. 

Pilot of the purple twilight, dropping 
down witli costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 
there rain'd a ghastly dew 

From the nations' airy navies grappling 
in the central blue ; 

Far along the world wide whisper of the 
south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plung- 
ing thro' the thunder-storm ; 



TENNYSON 



491 



Till the war-drum throbb"d no longer, 
and the battle-flags were furl'd 

In the Parliament of man, the Federa- 
tion of the world. 

Tliere the common sense of most shall 
hold a fretful realm in awe. 

And the kindl.y earth shall slumber, 
lappedin universal law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping 

thro' me left me dry. 
Left me witli the palsied heart, and left 

me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 
here are out of joint. 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creep- 
ing on from point to point ; 

Slowly conies a hungry people, as a lion, 
creeping nigher. 

Glares at one that nods and winks be- 
hind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one in- 
creasing i^urpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd 
with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not har- 
vest of his youthful joys. 

Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for 
ever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge c;omes, but wisdom lingers, 
and I linger on the shore. 

And the individual withers, and the 
world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, 
and he beai"s a laden breast. 

Full of sad experience, moving toward 
the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, 
sounding on the bugle-horn. 

They to whom my foolish passion were 
a target for their scorn. 

Shall it not be scorn to me to liarp on 
such a moulder'd string ; 

I am shamed thro' all my nature to have 
loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! 

woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions 

bounded in a shallower brain. 



Woman is the lesser man. and all thy 
passions, matcli'd with mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as 
water unto wine — 

Here at least, whei'e nature sickens, 
nothing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where 
my life began to beat, 

Where in wild Mahratta- battle fell my 

fatlier evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a 

selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to 
wander far away. 

On from island unto island at the gate- 
ways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 

moons and happj' skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 

cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 

European flag. 
Slides tiie bird o'er lustrous woodland, 

swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, 
hangs the heavy-frviited tree — ■ 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark- 
purple spheres of sea. 

Tliere methinks would be enjoyment 
more than in this march of mind. 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer 
shall have scope and breathing 
space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she 
shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sine w'd, they shall 
dive, and they sliall run. 

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and 
hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap 
the rainbows of the brooks. 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over 
miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I 
knoio my words are wild. 

But I count tlie giiiy barbarian lower 
than the Christian child. 



492 



BRITISH POETS 



I, to herd witli narrow foreheads, vacant 

of our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 

beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to 
me were sun or clime ! 

I the heir of all the ages, in the fore- 
most files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should 

perisli one by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. For- 
ward, forward let us range. 

Let the great world spin for ever down 
the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the j-ounger day ; 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle 

of Cathay. 

Mother-Age, — for mine I knew not, — 
help me as when life begun ; 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash 
the lightnings, weigh the sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' 

all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be. a long fare- 
well to Locksley Hall ! 

Now for me the woods may wither, now 
for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, black- 
ening over heatli and holt. 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its 
breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Lockslej' Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow ; 

For the mightj^ wind arises, roaring sea- 
ward, and I go. 1842. 

GODIVA 

I u'ciited for the train at Coventry ; 

I hung with grooins and porters on the 

bridge, 
To watch the three tall spires ; and there 

I shaped 
Tlie city's ancient legend, into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Tijue, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 



Cry down the past, not only we, that 

prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well, 
And loathed to see them overtax' d ; but 

she 
Did more, and underwent, and over- 
came. 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry : for wlien he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the motliers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 

we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
His beard a foot before him. and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of tlieir 

tears. 
And pray'd him, " If they pa^' this tax 

they starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
"You would not let your little finger 

ache 
For .such as these ?" — " But I would die," 

said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 

Paul, 
Then fiUip'd at the diamond in her ear : 
" O, ay, a}^ ay, you talk!" — "Alas!" 

slie said, 
"But prove me what it is I would not 

do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand. 
He a,nswer'd, " Ride 3'ou naked tliro' the 

town. 
And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in 

scorn. 
He parted, with great strides among his 

dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and 

blow. 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him crj', with sound of trum- 
pet, all 
The hard condition, but that she would 

loose 
The people ; therefore, as they loved her 

well. 
From then till noon no foot should pace 

the street, [all 

No eye look down, she passing, but that 



i 



TENNYSON 



493 



Should keep within, door shut, and win- 
dow barr'd. 
Then lied she to her inmost bower, and 

there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of lier belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer 

moon 
Half-dipped in cloud. Anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her 

knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 

stair 
Stole on ; and like a creeping sunbeam 

slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gatewa}' ; there she found her pal- 
frey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Tiien she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastit}'. 
The deep air listeu'd round her as she 

rode. 
And all the low wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd lieads upon the 

spout 
Had cunning eyes to see ; the barking 

cur 
Made her cheek flame ; lier palfrey's 

footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses ; the blind 

walls 
Were fullof chinks and holes ; and over- 
head 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared ; 

but she 
Not less tiiro' all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket fi-om 

the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity. 
And one low churl, comjiactof thankless 

earth , 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — -but his ej'^es, before they had 

their will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head, [wlio wait 

And dropped before him. So the Powers, 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
used ; [at once. 
And she, that knew not, pass'd ; and all 



With twelve great shocks of sound, the 
shameless noon [dred towers. 

Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hun- 
One after one ; but even then she gain'd 
Her bower, whence reissuing, robed and 

crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 

1842. 

SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men. 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumi)et shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel ; 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till tlie end. 

To save from shame and thrall ; 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine ; 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

N<jr maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and 
thrill : 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in wuik and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of h^'unis. 
Then by some secret shrine I ride : 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants. resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark. 
I leap on board ; no helmsman steers ; 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the Holj- Grail ; 



494 



BRITISH POETS 



With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings tliey sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides tiie gloiy slides. 

And starlike mingles with tiie stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The slreets are dumb with snow. 
Tlie tempest crackles on the leads, 

And. ringing, springs from brand and 
mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the heiglit ; 

No branch^' tliicket shelter yields : 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

Tliat t)ften meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken bj^ an angel's hand. 

Tills mortal armor that I wear. 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

Tlie clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! tiie prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm"d I ride, whate'er betide, 

Untill find the Holy Grail. 1842. 

A FAREWELL 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 

Thy tribute wave deliver : 
No more by tliee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet, then a river ; 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 



But here will sigh thine alder-tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee. 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will .stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
For ever and for ever. 1842. 

THE VISION OF SIN 

I 

I HAD a vision when the night was late ; 

A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would 
have flown. 

But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

And from the palace came a child of sin. 

And took him by the curls, and led liiin 
in. 

Where sat a company with heated eyes. 

Expecting when a fountain should arise. 

A sleepy light upon their brows and 
lips — 

As when the sun. a crescent of eclipse. 

Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 
and capes — 

Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 
shapes. 

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 
and piles of grapes. 

II 

Then methought I heard a mellow 
sound, 

Gatliering u])from all the lower ground; 

Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
bled. 

Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled. 

Woven in circles. They that heard it 
sigh'd. 

Panted liaiid-in-liand with faces pale, 

Swung themselves, and in low tones re- 
plied ; 

Till the fountain spouted, showering 
wide 

Sleet of diamond-drift and pearlj^ hail. 

Then the music touch'd the gates and 
died, 

Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 

Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 

Till thronging in and in, to where tliey 
waited. 

As 't were a hundred-throated nightin- 
gale. 



TENNYSON 



495 



The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught tlie sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden liazes, liquid 

mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round. 
Then they started from tlieir places. 
Moved with violence, changed in line, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view. 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To tlie melody, till tliey flew, 
Hair and eyes and limbs and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew ; 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Fluttered headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain- 
tract. 

That girt the region with high cliff and 
lawn. 

I saw that every morning, far with- 
drawn 

Beyond the darkness and the cataract. 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn, 

Unheeded ; and detaching, fold by foUl, 

From those still heights, and, slowlj' 
drawing near, 

A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 

Came floating on for many a month and 
year, 

Unheeded ; and I thought I would have 
spoken, 

And warn'd that madman ere it grew 
too late, 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 
was broken, 

When that cold vapor touch'dthe palace- 
gate. 

And link"d again. I saw wathin my 
head 

A graj^ and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 
death, 

Who slowly rode across a wither'd 
lieath, 

And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! • 
Here is custom come your way ; 

Take my brute, and lead him in. 
Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 



" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed. 
What ! the flower of life is past ; 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour. 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour, 
Let us hob-and-nob with Death, 

"I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
When a blanket wraps the daj". 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee ; 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

' ' Let me screw thee up a peg ; 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine ; 
Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works. 
Thou hast been a sinner too ; 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup and fill the can. 
Have a rouse before the morn ; 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore conies it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 
Thro' the courts, the cam})S, the 
schools. 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well. 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 



496 



BRITISH POETS 



" O, we two as well can look 
Whited tlioughtaiid cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at liis neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup and fill the can. 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. ^ 

" Drink, and let the parties rave ; 

Tliey are fiU'd with idle spleen, 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 
Faster binds a tyrant's power, 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can and fill the cup ; 

All the windy ways of men 
Ai-e but dust that rises up. 

And is lightlj' laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath. 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house. 
And I tliink we know tlie hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her tliirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs. 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool. — 
Visions of a perfect State ; 

Drink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Cliant me now some wicked stave. 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And tlie glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue. 
Set thy lioary fancies free ; 

What is loathsome to the young 
Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years. 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears. 

And the warmtli of hand in hand. 



" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance — 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can and fill the cup ; 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up. 

And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads — 

Welcome, fellow-citizens. 
Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

'• You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat. 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on tlie stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex 

From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your e^^e — nor yet j'our lip ; 

All the more do I admire 
Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
plan — 

Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed; 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 

Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Tiiou art mazed, the night is long. 
And the longer night is near — 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 

When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 
Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup and fill the can ; 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man ; 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 



The voice grew faint ; there came a 
further change ; 



TENNYSON 



497 



Once more uprose the mystic moun- 
tain range. 
Below were men and horses pierced 
witli worms, 

And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 

By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of 
dross, 

Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 
with moss. 

Then some one spake : t' Behold ! it was 
a crime 

Of sense avenged by sense that wore 
with time." 

Another said: "The crime of sense be- 
came 

Tlie crime of malice, and is equal blame." 

And one : " He had not wholly quencli'd 
his power ; 

A little grain of conscience made him 
.sour." 

At last I heard a voice upoji tlie slope 

Cry to the summit, " Is there any liope ? " 

To which an answer peal'd from tliat 
high land. 

But in a tongue no man could under- 
•stand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn. 1843. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy. 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O, well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill : 

But O for the touch of a vaiiish'd hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 1843. 

THE POET'S SONG 

The rain had fallen, the Poet ai'ose. 
He pass'd by the town and out of the 
street ; 
32 



A light wind blew from the gates of 
tlie sun. 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wlieat : 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made tlie wild-swan pause in her 
cloud. 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopped as he hunted tlie fiy, 

The snake slipped under a spraj', 
The wild hawk stood with the down on 
his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey ; 
And the niglitingale thought, " I have 
sung many songs. 

But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of wliat tiie world will be 

When the years liave died away." 1842. 

LYRICS FROM THE PRINCESS 

Teaks, idle teai-s, I know not what 

they mean. 
Tears from tlie depth of some divine de- 

sjiair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on tlie happy autvmin-iields, 
And thinking of the days that ai'e no 

more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on 

a sail, 
Tliat brings our friends up from the 

underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the 

verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 

more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark sum- 
mer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, wlien unto dying eyes 
Tlie casement slowly grows a glimmer- 
ing square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that ai*e no 
more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all re- 
gret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no 
more ! 



498 



BRITISH POETS 



O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 
south, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

O, tell her, Swallow, thou that know- 

est each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the 

South, 
And dark and true and tender is the 

North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could fol- 
low, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million 
loves. 

O, were I thou that she might take 
me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died ! 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 

with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delaj^s 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are 

green ? 

O, tell her. Swallow, that thy brood 

is flown ; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is 

made. 

O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the 

North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the 

South. 

O Sts^allow, flying from the golden 

woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and 

make her mine. 
And tell her, tell lier, that I follow thee. 



As thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O, we fell out, I know not why. 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 



There above tlie little grave, 
O, there above the little grave, 
We kiss'd again with tears. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me : 
While my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon ; 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
one, sleep. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And tlie wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O, hark, O, hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The liorns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 
ing, 
Blow, bugle : answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 

And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 



Tliy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 
That beat to battle where he stands ; 

Thy face across his fancy comes. 
And gives the battle to his hands. 



TENNYSON 



499 



A moment, while the trumpets blow, 
He sees his brood about tliy knee ; 

The next, like fire he meets the foe, 
And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



Home they brouglit her warrior dead ; 

She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry. 
All her maidenif, watching, said, 

•' She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stepped, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came lier teai'S- 
" Sweet my child, I live for'tliee." 



Ask me no more : tlie moon may draw 
the sea ; 



The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of 
cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd 
thee ? 

Ask me no moi'e. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I 
give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee 
die! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
live ; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
seal'd ; 
I strove against the stream and all in 

vain ; 
Let the great river take me to the 
main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 

1847-1850.1 

1 The first two of these lyrics, included in the 
body of the work, were published in the original 
edition, 1847 ; the others, inserted between the 
sections of the poem, were first given in the 
edition of 1850. 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 



OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not why. 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou. 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day : 
Tliey have their day and cease to be ; 
They are but broken lights of thep. 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 



We have but faith : we cannot know, 
For knowledge is of things we see ; 
And yet we trust it comes from thee, 

A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before. 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me. 
What seem'd my worth since I began ; 
For merit lives from man to man, 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

1 Arthur Henry Hallam, Tennyson's closest 
friend, and betrothed to Tennyson's sister Emily, 
died at Vienna, September 1.5, 1833. See the Life 
of Tennyson, I., 49-55, 75-83, 104-108; and 395-327. 



SCO 



BRITISH POETS 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find liim worthier to be loved. 

Foi-give these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive tlieni where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make nie wise. 

1849.'^ 

m 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath. 

What wiiispers from thy lying lip ? 

" The stars," she whispers, "blindly run ; 

A web is woven across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry. 
And murmurs from the dying sun ; 

" And all the phantom. Nature, stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her. like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In woi'ds, like weeds. I '11 wrap me o'er 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which tliese en- 
fold 

Is given in outline and no more. 

lit must be particularly noticed that this in- 
troductory poem was among the last written of 
those which make up 7/i Memoriam. The early 
parts begin with No. II. or No. III. 

On the development of thought and feeling in 
the poem as a whole, which is fully shown in the 
parts here given, see Thomas Davidson's Prole- 
gomena to In Memoriam, Alfred Gatty's Key to 
la Memoriam, and .1. G Genung'sin Memoriam : 
Its Purpose anil its Structure. 



One writes, that " other friends remain," 
That ' ' loss is common to the race " — 
And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more. 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, where.soe"er thou be. 

Who pledgest now tiiy gallant son, 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavj'-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At tliat last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, something 
thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, " hereto-day," 

Or " here to-morrow will he come." 

O. somewhere, meek, tinconscious dove. 
That sittest ranging golden liaic ; 
And glad to find th}\self so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a gue.st ; 

And thinking "this will please him 
best," 
Slie takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns ; 

And, having left the gla.ss, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd. the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lortl 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kiird in falling from his horse. 

O, what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her perpetual maidenhood. 
And unto me no second friend. 



I 



TENNYSON 



501 



Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in tlie long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
Beliold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 
Tlie noise of life begins again, 
Aii'l ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks tlie blank day. 

IX 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my l(3st Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy miri'or'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Tiiy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before tiie 
prow ; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he slee])s now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at tlie wheel. 

Thou bring'st tiie sailor to his wife. 
And travell'd men from foreign lands 
And letters unto trembling liands ; 

And thy dark freiglit, a vanisli'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams ; 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our liome-bred fancies. O, to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 



To rest beneath the clover sod, 
That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee tlie roaring wells 
Should gulf him fatliom-deep in brine. 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine, 

Sliould toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound. 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief. 
And only thro' tlie faded leaf 

Tlie chestnut pattering to the ground; 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold. 
And on these dews that drench the 

furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold ; 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers. 
To mingle with tlie bounding main ; 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
Tliese leaves that redden to the fall. 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair ; 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway them.selves in 

rest, 
.\nd dead calm in that noble breast 
Which iieaves but with the heaving 
deep. 

XIII 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and 
feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss for ever new, 

A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest 
and closed, 

Silence, till I be silent too ; 

Wliich weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 



S02 



BRITISH POETS 



Come, Time, and teach me. many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things 
seem. 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears, 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 
And glance about the approaching 

sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' 
bales. 
And not the burthen that they bring. 

XIV 

If one should bring me this report, 
That thou hadst touch'd tlie land to- 
day, 
And I went down unto tlie quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down tlie 
plank. 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these sliould come 
The man I held as lialf-divine. 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine. 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain. 

And how my life had droop'd of late. 

And he should sorrow o'er my state 
And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all liis frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XVIII 

'T is well ; 't is something ; we may 
stand 
Where he in English earth is laid. 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little ; but it looks in truth 
As if tlie quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure liands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 



Ah yet, even yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 

XIX 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore. 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

Tliere twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes bj', 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in tlie hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along. 

And hush'd my deepest grief of all. 

When fill'd with tears that cannot 
fall, 
I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

Tlie tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguisli also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 

XXI 

I sing to him that rests below. 

And, since the grasses round nie wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

Tlie traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly will bespeak: 
"This fellow would make weakness 
weak. 

And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers : " Let him be. 
He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth : " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

" A time to sicken and to swoon, 
Wlien Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? " 



TENNYSON 



503 



Behold, ye speak an idle thing ; 

Ye never knew the sacred dvist. 

I do but sing because I must. 
And pipe but as the linnets sing ; 

And one is glad ; her note is gay, 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad : her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stolen away. 



Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits. 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And lookijig back to whence I came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying. How changed from where 
it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb, 
But all the lavish hills wovild hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan ; 

When each by turns was guide to each. 

And Fancy light from Fancy cauglit. 

And Tliought leaped out to wed with 

Thouglit 

Ere Thought could wed itself with 

Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good. 
And all was good that Time could 

bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXVII 

I envy not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born witliin the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods ; 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, wliat may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted troth 



But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 
Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it. when I sorrow most ; 

'T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII 

The time draws near the birth of Christ. 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

The Christmas bells from Jiill to hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four liamlets round, 
From far and near, on mead and moor. 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept, and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my liold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again ; 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 
For they control I'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with 

joy. 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, witli an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the 
beech ; 
We heard them sweep the winter 

land ; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang witli him 

Last year ; impetuously we sang. 



50+ 



BRITISH POETS 



I 



We ceased ; a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet. 
" They rest," we said, " their sleep is 
sweet," 

And silence foUovv'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " Tliey do not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 

Nor change to us, although they change ; 

"Rapt from tlie fickle and the frail 
With gather"d power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 
Draw forth the clieerful day from 

night : 
O Father, touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 

XXXI 

When Lazarus left his charn el-cave, 
And home to Mary's house return'd. 
Was this demanded — if he yearn 'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave? 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days ? " 
There lives no record of reply. 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met. 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound , 
A solemn gladness even ci'own'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not, or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
Nor other tliouglit her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he tliat brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when lier ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes tlie Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 



Tlirice blest whose lives are faitliful 
prayers. 

Whose loves in higher love endure ; 

What souls possess themselves so pure, 
Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



O thou that after toil and storm 
Mayst seem to have reacli'd a purer 

air, 
Wliose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays. 
Her early heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good. 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law witliin, 
Thou fail not in a world of .sin, 

And even for want of such a type. 

XL 

Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower ! 

When crovvn'd with blessing .she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender e3'es ; 

And doubtful joys the father move. 
And tears are on tlie mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love : 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

Tlie generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great offices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself return, 



TENNYSON 



50s 



And tell them all they would have told. 

And bring her babe, and make her 
boast, 

Till even those that miss'd her most 
Shall count uew things as dear as old ; 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
posed, 
Then these were such as men might 
scorn. 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods re- 
mit. 

What slender shade of doubt may flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love ; 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words, 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords ; 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But I'ather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



O, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

Tliat nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
Tiiat not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night ; 

An infant crying for the light, 
And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No Ijife may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature tlien at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life. 

That I, considering everywhere 
Hei- secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

Slie often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff', and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



"So careful of the type ? " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, "■ A tliousand types are gone ; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life. I bring to death ; 
Tlie spirit does l)iit mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he. 

Mm, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Sucli splendid [)urpose in his eyes, 
Wiio roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Wlio built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Wlio trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tlio' Nature, red in tooth and claw 
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be l)lowu about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron liills ? 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of tiie prime, 
That tear each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voine to sootlie and bless ! 

Wliat hope of answer, or redress 'i 
Behind the veil, behind tlie veil. 



BRITISH POETS 



Peace ; come away : the song of woe 

Is after all an earthlj^ song. 

Peace ; come away : we do him \vrong 
To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 

But half my life I leave behind. 

Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; 
But I shall pass, my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till liearing dies. 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
Tlie passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 

" Adieu, adieu," for evermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell. 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day. 
Half-conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shall 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd :" Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 

Abide a little longer here. 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 



Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
And breasts the blows of circumstance. 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

AVho makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden keys. 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher. 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The center of a world's desire ; 



Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate. 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He playVl at counsellors and kings 

With one tliat was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands. 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me? " 

LXVII 

Wiien on my bed the naoonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name, 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mj'stic glory swims away. 

From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 
And closing eaves of wearied eyes 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray ; 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers in the dawn. 



As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
To those that watch it mcne and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Conies out — to some one of his race ; 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can .see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXVIII 

Again at Christmas did we weave 

Tiie holly round the Christmas hearth; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve. 



I 



TENNYSON 



507 



The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 
Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress? 
No single tear," no mark of pain — 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 

O grief , can grief be changed to less? 

O last regret, regret can die I 
No — mixed with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same, 

But with long use her tears are dry. 



Dip down upon tlie northern shore, 

sweet new-A^ear delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant Nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What fitaj^s thee fi'om tlie clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ; 
Can trouble live witli April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 

KThat longs to burst a frozen bud 
And flood a freslier throat with song. 

LXXXV 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 

1 felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 

'T is better to have loved and lost, 
Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustained ; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 



Thro' light reproaches, half expressed, 
And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blQod an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state. 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
And show'd Jiim in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
Whose life, whose thoughts were little 

worth. 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 
Where all things round me breathed of 
him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control. 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of hunian will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
AlI-conrprel»ensive tenderness. 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 
That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused tlie shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 



So8 



BRITISH POETS 






I woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears. 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this ; 

But Summer on the steaming floods. 
And Spring that sw-ells the narrow- 
brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of liglit or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And m\^ prime passion in the grave. 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet siiore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 

And lightly does tlie whisper fall : 
" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this ; 
I triumph in conclusive bliss. 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with sj inbols play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Novv looking to some settled end. 

That those things pass, and I sliall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresli, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for liim to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers. 

That marry with the virgin heart. 



Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats witliin a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quiet in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

Tlie round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewj^ tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and 
Death. 

Ill brethren, let the fancy fly. 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far. 
To where m yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 

LXXXVIl 

I past beside the reverend walls 
In wliich of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

Tlie prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant .shout. 
The measured pulse of i-acing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about. 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 



TENNYSON 



509 



Atiotlier name was ou tlie door. 
I liiiger'd ; all within svas noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
boys 

Tliat crash'd the glass and beat the floor ; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the clianging mart. 

And all the framework of the land ; 

Wlien one would aim an arrow fair. 

But send it slackly from the string ; 

And one woukl pierce an outer ring, 
And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he, 

Would cleave tlie mark. A willing 

ear 
We lent him. Who but hung to hear 

Tlie rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions wlien we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly- wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo ? 



Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 
O, tell me where the senses mix, 

O, tell me whei'e the passions meet. 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost lieart of grief 

"Tljy passion clasps a secret joy ; 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 
I cannot all command tlie strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

xcvi 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-liearted, you, wliose light-blue 

eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed. 



Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 
But ever strove to make it true ; 

Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last he beat his music out. 
Tliere lives more faith in honest doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength, 
He would not make his judgment 

blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid tliein ; thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own. 

And Power was with liim in the night. 
Which makes tlie darkness and the 
light. 

And dwells not in the light alone. 

But in tlie darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altlio' the trnmpet blew so loud. 



My love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in niysterj'. 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Tiieir meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart ; 

He loves her yet, slie will not weep, 
Tiio' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple iieart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 
He reads the secret of the star. 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither 'd violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is. 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 



BRITISH POETS 



For him she plays, to him slie sings 
Of early faith and pUghted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixed and cannot move. 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand ; I love." 

Cil 

We leave the well-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs that heard our earliest cry 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, " Here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung." 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
Witli thj^ lost friend among the 
bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

Tliese two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate claim. 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go ; my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 
farms ; 

Thej'^ mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 

CIV 

The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound. 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days. 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



cvi 

Ring out. wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, i-ing in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let liim go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that liere we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient foi-ms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faitliless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
Tlie civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes ©f foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out tlie darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVIII 

I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone. 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 
And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale tlie heaven's lughest height, 

Or dive below the wells of death ? 

What find I in the highest place. 

But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the deptlis of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 



TENNYSON 



511 



111 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrovv^ uiuler human skies : 
'T ia lield that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep witli thee. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along the scale of ranks, tliro' all. 
To liim who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown, — 

Tlie churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale ; 

For who can always act ? but he, 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever nari'owness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting bj^, 
Drew in the expression of an eye 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXIII 

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with 
thee 

Which not alone had guided me, 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 

A life in civic action warm, 
A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm. 

Should licensed boldness gather force. 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 



With thousand shocks that come and 
. SO, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 

cxiv 

Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall 
rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall 
fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work i^revail. 

But on her foreliead sits a fire ; 
She sets lier forward countenance 
And leaps into tlie future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot figlit the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of demons? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in lier onward race 
For power. Let her know her place ; 

She is the second, not tlie first. 

A higher hand must make her mild. 
If all be not in vain, and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With Wisdom, like the younger child ; 

For she is earthly of the mind. 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 

cxv 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea. 



512 



BRITISH POETS 



Where now the seaniew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
Tlie happy birds, that change their 
sky 

To build and brood, that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too, and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an am]>ler day 
For ever nobler ends. Tliey say. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose tiie man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to 
clime, 
The herald of a higher race. 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and 
show 

That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom. 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipped in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast : 
Move upward, working out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXXIII 

Tliere rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 
O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! 
There where the long street roars hath 
been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and thej' flow 
From form to form, and nothing 
stands ; 



They melt like mist, the solid lands. 
Like clouds they shape themselves and 

go- 
But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

CXXIV 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our deai'est faith ; our ghastliest 
doubt ; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess, — 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye. 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun. 

If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice. '• believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep, 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in wrath tlie heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made jne wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 



What ever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes mj' harp would give. 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue. 

Yet hope had never lost her youth. 

She did but look through dimmer eyes ; 

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies. 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth ; 

And if the song were full of care. 
He bi'eathed the spirit of the song : 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong 

He set his royal signet there ; 



TENNYSON 



5^3 



Abiding witli ine till I sail 
To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric; force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

CXXVI 

Love is and was nij' lord and king. 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of mj' friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my king and lord. 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within the court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 
Who moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVII 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, even tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags ! 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the sky. 

And the great ^on sinks in blood, 

And conipass'd by the fires of hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal, 
O loved the most, when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown, human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lij)s and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend tiiat canst not 
die. 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

33 



Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxx 

Thy voice i»on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun. 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less. 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

cxxx I 

O living will that shalt endui'e 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 

1S33-49. 1850. 

TO THE QUEEN 1 

Revered, beloved — O j'ou that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 

1 Prefixed to the first edition of Tennyson's 
Poems published after he became Poet Laureate. 



514 



BRITISH POETS 



And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls. 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chainbers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 

" She wrought her people lasting good ; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her jieace ; lier land reposed ; 

A tliousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 

" And statesmen at her council met 
Wiio knew the seasons wlien to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By sliaping some august deci'ee 
Whicli kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will. 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 

1851. 

THE EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands. 
Close to the sun in lonely lands. 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

Tlie wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

1851. 

COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD 

/ Come not, when I am dead, 
* To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
) grave, 

•^ To trample round my fallen head. 

And vex the vmhappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let tlie wind sweep and the plover 
cry ; 
^ But thou, go by. 



Child, if it were thine error or tliy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom tliou wilt, but I am sick of 
time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me wliere 
Hie; 
Go by, go by. 1851. 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
OF WELLINGTON 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation ; 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To tlie noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation ; 
Mourning when tlieir leaders fall. 
Warriors carry tlie warrior's jiall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those lie wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Eclio round his bones for evermore. 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long, long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow. 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

IV 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
Witli lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute! 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood, 
Tlie statesman -warrior, moderate, reso- 
lute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitiovis crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war, 



TENNYSON 



515 



Foremost captain of his time, 

Ricli in saving common-sense, 

And, as the greatest only are, 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head whicli all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fallen at length tliat tower of strengtli 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
Tlie long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be 

seen no more. 



All is over and done, 

Render tlianks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, 

And a reverent peo])le behold 

The towering car, the j^able steeds. 

Bright let it l)e witli its blazon'd deeds. 

Dark in its funerid fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 
knoll'd ; 

And tlie sound of the sorrowing anthem 
roU'd 

Thro' tlie dome of the golden cross; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his 
loss ; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

Hiscaptain's-ear has heaid them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 

When he with those deep voices 
wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame, 

With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name 

Whicli he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemi^er'd frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name, 

To such a name for ages long. 

To such a name. 

Preserve a broa.d approach of fame, 

And ever-echoing avenues of song ! 



" Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 

or'd guest. 
With banner and with music, witii sol- 
dier and with i)riest, 
With a nation weeping, and l)reaking 

on my rest ? " — 
Mighty Seaman, tliis is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou 

famous man , 
The greatest sailor since our world be- 
gan. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O, give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
lie that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gvin ; 
This is he tiiat far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 
Where he greatly stood at ba.y, 
Whence he issuetl forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew. 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms. 
Back to France with countless blows, " 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
Foilow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes, 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings. 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

ci'own 
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky sqvuue. 
Their surging charges foam'd them- 
selves away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 



Si6 



BRITISH POETS 



Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flasli'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of countiy move thee there at all. 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thi'o' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to hh name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 

forget, 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers, 
Thank Him who isled us here, and 

roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
We have a voice with which to pay the 

debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and 

regret 
To those great men wlio fouglit, and 

kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control I 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and tlieir ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ! [kind 

For, saving that, ye help to save man- 



Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march 

' of mind. 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him wlio led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 

spoke ; 
AVlio never sold the truth to serve the 

liour. 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and 

low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eiglity winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right. 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ! 
AVhatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands. 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all lier stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn . 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story 
The path of duty was the way to glory. 
He that walks it, only tliirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find tlie stubborn tliistle burst- 
ing 
Into glossy purples, whicli out-redden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story 



TENNYSON 



517 



The path of duty was tlie way to gloiy. 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands. 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 

won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To wliich our God Himself is moon and 

sun . 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure ; 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory. 
And let the land whose hearths he saved 

from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to liim. 
Eternal honor to his name. 

IX 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung. 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and 

brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere ; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity. 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Thau when he fought at Waterloo, 



And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will, 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 
Round us. each witli different powers. 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul? 
On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in tlie 

people's ears ; 
The dark crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears ; 
The black eai'th j^awns ; the mortal dis- 
appears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone wlio seem'd so great. — 
Gone, but notliing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being hei'e, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
God accept him, Christ receive him ! 

1853. 

HANDS ALL ROUND 

First pledge our Queen this solemn 
night. 
Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 
That man's the true Conservative 

Who lops the moulder'd branch away. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my 
friends, 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 

To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New England of the Southern Pole I 
To England under Indian skies. 

To those dark millions of her reahn 1 
To Canada whom we love and prize, 

Whatever statesman hold the helm. 
Hands all round ! 



BRITISH POETS 



God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great name of England drink, my 
friends, [round. 

And all her glorious emijire, round and 

To all our statesmen so they be 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may tliey see 

Beyond tlie borougli and the sliire ! 
We sail'd wlierever sliip covdd sail. 

We founded many a mightj^ state ; 
Pray God our greatness may not fail 
Tino' craven fears of being great ! 

Hands all round ! 
God the traifior's ho])e confound ! 
To tliis great cause of Freedom drink, my 
friends. 
And the great name of England, round 
and round. 1852. 



THE 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE 1 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valle.y of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd. 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of Ihem, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 

1 " On Dec. 3d he wrote the Charge of the 
Light Brigade in a few niiiiutes, after refilling 
the description in tlie Timrs in which occurred 
tlie phrase ' Some one hail liliitidered,' and this 
was the origin of the metre of liis poem." (Life 
I, 381.) 



Sabring the guiniers there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd. 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Ru.ssian 
Reel'd from the sabre -stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

Caimon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of tliem, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hei'o fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro" the jaws of Death, 
Back from tlie mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can tlieir glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

December 9, 1854. 



THE BROOK 

I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally. 
And sparkle out among the fern. 

To bicker down a valley. 

By tliirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between tlte ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join tlie brimming river. 

For Dien may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying ba3"S, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow -weed and mallow. 



TENNYSON 



5^9 



I chatter, cliatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and tliere a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and tliere a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move tiie sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
A^mong my sknnming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men maj' go. 
But I go on forever. ,t 1855. 

LYRICS FROM MAUDi 



A VOICE by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under tlio Hall ! 

Siie is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life. 
In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array. 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for tlieir native land. 

1 See the Life of Teunysou, I, 393-406. 



Maud with her exquisite face. 

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny 
sky. 

And feet like sunny gems on an English 
green, 

Maud in the light of her j'outh and her 
grace. 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so sor- 
did and mean. 

And mj'self so languid and base. 

Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in wliich I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more. 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 
choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall be- 
fore 

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 

Not her, not her, but a voice. 



XI 



O, let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

Wliat some have found so sweet ! 

Then let come what come ma}^, 

What matter if I go mad, 

I shall have had my day. 

Let the sweet heavens endure, 

Not close and darken above me 
Before I am quite quite sure 
• That there is one to love me ! 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I — who else ?— was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



520 



BRITISH POETS 



I kiss'd her slender hand, 

She took the kiss sedately ; 
Maud is not seventeen, 

But she is tall and stately. 

I to cry out on pride 

Who have w^on her favor ! 
O, Maud were sure of heaven 

If lowliness could save her ! 

I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? 
One is come to woo her. 

Look, a horse at the door. 

And little King Charley snarling ! 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 

XVII 

. Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships ; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blusli it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond tlie sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blusli it tliro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII 

I have led her home, my love, my only 

friend. 
There is none like her, none. 



And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end , 
Full to the banks, close on the promised 
good. 

None like her. none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' patter- 
ing talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden 
walk. 

And sliook my heart to think she comes 
once more. 

But even then I heard her close the door ; 

The gates of heaven are closed, and she 
is gone. 

There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have de- 
ceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to tliy 
delicious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here in- 
creased. 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 

And looking to the Soutli and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my 
fate, 

And made my life a perfumed altar- 
flame : 

And over wliom thy darkness must have 
spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy 
great 

Forefathers of tlie thornless garden, 
there 

Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve fi-om 
whom she came ? 

Here will I lie, while these long branches 

sway, [da.v 

And you fair stars that crown a happy 
Go in and out as if at merry play. 
Who am no more so all forlorn 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and tlie mattock-liai'den'd hand 
Than nursed at ease and brouglit to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His notliingness into man. 



TENNYSON 



52,1 



But now shine on, and what care I 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a 

pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow 

sky, 
And do "accept my madness, and would 

die 
To save from some slight shame one 

simple girl ? — 

Would die, for sullen-seeming Deatli 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

Not die, but live a life of truest breath, 

And teach true life to fight with mortal 
wrongs. 

O, why should Love, like men in drink- 
ing songs, 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 
death ? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss, 

Maud made my Maud by that long loving 
kiss. 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 
this ? 

" The dusky strand of Death inwoven 
here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love him- 
self more dear." 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in j^onder 

bay? 
And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal 

white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play ; 
But now by this my love has closed her 

sight, 
And given false death her hand, and 

stolen away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fan- 
cies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden 

day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 

spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 



My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go. 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has ovir whole earth gone nearer to tlie 

glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look so 

bright ? 
I have climb'd nearer out of lonely hell. 
Beat, hapi)y stars, timing with things 

below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than 

heart can tell. 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe [so ; 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be 
Let all be well, be well. 



Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me. 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall. 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee — 

If I read her sweet will right — 

On a blushing mission to me. 

Saying in odor and color, " Ah be 

Among the roses to-night." 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at tiie gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the liglit that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the liglit of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



i;22 



BRITISH POETS 



I said to the lily, " There is but one. 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
For one that will never be thine ? 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 

And the soul of tlie rose went into my 
blood, 
As the music clasli'd in the Hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From tlie lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left 
so sweet 
That whenever a Marchrwind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as j'our eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we 
meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on tlie tree ; 
The wliite lake-blossom fell into the 
lake 

As tlie pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigii'd for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls. 

Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; [curls, 
Shine out, little head, sunning over with 

To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There lias fallen a splendid tear 
From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
Slie^is coming, my life, my fate. 

The red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
near ; " 



And the white rose weeps, " She is 
late ; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming,my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so aiiy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and bent, 

Had I lain for a century dead. 
Would start and tremble under lier feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

PART II 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pure as a pearl. 
Lying close to nn' foot. 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 

Slight, to be crusli'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

Breton, not Briton : here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro,' 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below. 

But only moA'es with the moving eye. 

Flying along the land and the main — 



TENNYSON 



523 



Why sliould it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 

Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 

An old song vexes my ear. 

But that of Lamecli is mine. 

For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as slie 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Sliall I nurse in my dark lieart. 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

Strange, that the mind, when frauglit 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Miglit drown all life in the eye, — 

Tliat it should, by being so overwrought, 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Whicli else would have been past by ! 

And now I remember, I, 

AVhen lie lay djang there, 

I noticed one of his many rings — 

For he had many, poor worm — and 

thought. 
It is his mother's hair. 

Who knows if he be dead ? 

Wliether I need have fled? 

Am I guilty of blood? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort lier, all things 

good , 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love goby, 
But speak to her all tilings holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find lier asleep. 
Powers of the height. Powers of tlie 

deep, ' 
And comfort her tho' I die ! 

IV 

O that "t were possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In tlie silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
]\Iixed witli kisses sweeter, sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee. 

All, Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell 

us 
What and where they be ! 

It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold wliite robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of earlj' skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meetijig of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 

'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turi'ets and the walls ; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet. 

She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet. 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And tlie rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head, 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a passionate 

cry. 
There issome one dying or dead. 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled. 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold ! 



524 



BRITISH POETS 



Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about ! 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 

Then I rise, the eave-drops fall. 
And tlie j'ellow vapors choke 
The gi'eat city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

Thro" the hubbuli of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame ; 

It crosses here, it crosses there. 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud. 

The shadow still tiie same ; 

And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 

Alas for her that met me. 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet eveufall. 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall ! . 

Would the happy spirit descend 
From the realms of light and song. 
In the chamber or the street. 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " ? 

But tlie broad light glares and beats, 

And the sliadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets. 

And the faces that one meets, 

Hearts with no love for me. 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep. 

There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 1855. 

WILL 

O, WELL for him whose will is strong ! 

He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. 

For him nor moves the loud world's 
random mock. 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 



That, compass'd round with turbulent 

sound. 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

But ill for him who, bettering not with 
time. 

Corrupts the strength of heaven-de- 
scended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted 
crime. 

Or seeming-genial venial fault. 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one wliose footsteps halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand. 

And o'er a weary sultry land, 

Far beneath a blazing vault. 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 
hill. 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 

1855. 

ENID-S SONG 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

Turn, turn thj'^ wheel above the staring 

crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and tliee we neither love nor 

Jiate. 
From the Marriaye of Geraint, 1859, 

VIVIEN'S SONG 

In love, if love be love, if love be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be e<fiial 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 



TENNYSON 



525 



It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music 

mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

It is not worth the keeping ; let it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all. 

From Merlin and Vivien, 1859. 

ELAINE-S SONG 

Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in 

vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to 

pain. 
I know^ not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death 

must be. 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to 

me. 

liove, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade 
away ; 

Sweet death, that seems to make us love- 
less clay ; 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

I fain would follow love, if that could 

be; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for 

me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die. 

From Lancelot and Elaine, 1839. 

GUINEVERE 

Queen Guinevere liad fled the court, 

and sat 
There in tlie holy liouse at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice. One low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the 

face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 
^ was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of 
flight 



Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance. For 

this 
He chill'd the popular praises of tlie 

King 
With silent smiles of slow dispai'age- 

ment ; 
And tamper'd with tlie Lords of the 

Wliite Horse, 
Heatlien, the brood by Hengist left ; and 

sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his 

aims 
Were sharpened by strong hate for Lance- 
lot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all 
the court, 

Green-suited, but with plumes that 
mock'd the May, 

Had been — their wont— a-maying and 
returned, 

Tliat Modred still in green, all ear and 
eye, 

Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
wall 

To spy some secret scandal if he might. 

And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her 
best 

Enid and lissome Vivien, of her court 

The wiliest and tlie worst ; and more 
than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 

Spied where he couch'd, and as the gar- 
dener's liand 

Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
pillar, 

So from the high wall and the flowering 
grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the 
heel, 

And cast him as a worm upon tlie way ; 

But when he knew the prince thu' 
marr'd witli dust. 

He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 
man , 

Made such excuses as he might, and 
these 

Full knightly without scorn. For in 
those days 

No knight of Artliur's noblest dealt in 
scorn ; [liiia 

But, if a man were halt, or hunch'd, in 

By those whom God had made full- 
limb'd and tall. 



526 



BRITISH POETS 



Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the prince, who rising twice or 

thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, 

and went ; 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and rufHed all his heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
Tliis matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who 

cries, 
' ' I shudder, some one steps across mj' 

grave ; " 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for in- 
deed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in 

hall. 
Or elsewliere. Modred's narrow foxy face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent 

eye. 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend 

tlie soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for 

hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grina faces came and 

went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creaking 

doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake ; or if she slept she 

dream'd [stand 

An awful dream, for then she seem'd to 
On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
And from tlie sun there swiftly made at 

her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 
Before it till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 



When lo ! her own, that broadening 

from her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the land, 

and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a crj^ she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not })ass but 

grew, 
Till even the clear face of tlie guileless 

King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said : 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 

own land. 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
And if we meet again some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the people and our lord the King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 

main'd 
And still they met and met. Again she 

said . 
"O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a 

night — 
When the good King should not be there 

— to meet 
And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, 

heard. 
She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they 

met 
And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye 

to eye. 
Low on the Ijorder of her couch they sat 
Stammering and staring. It was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 
For testimony ; and crying with full 

voice, 
" Traitor, come out, ye are trapped at 

last," aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him lieadlong, 

and he fell 
Stunn'd and his creatures took and bare 

him off. 
And all was still. Tlien she, " The end 

is come, 
And I am shamed for ever ; " and he 

said : 
" Mine be the shame, mine was the sin ; 

but rise, 
And fly to my strong castle over-seas. 



TENNYSON 



527 



There will I hide thee till my life shall 

end, 
There hold thee with my life against tlie 

world.'' 
She answer'd : ' ' Lancelot, wilt thou hold 

me so ? 
Nay, friend, for we have taken ourfare- 

wells. 
Would God tliat thou couldst hide me 

from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 

thou 
Unwedded ; yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot got 

her horse, 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 

own, 
And then they rode to the divided way, 
Tiiere kiss'd, and parted weeping ; for 

he passed. 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen , 
Back to his land ; but siie to Almesbury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste 

and weald, 
And heard the spirits of the waste and 

weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan. 
And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, 

too late ! " 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, tlie raven, flying high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, "He spies a 

field of death ; 
For now the heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of tlie 

court. 
Begin to slay the folk and spoil the land." 

And when she came to Almesbury she 
spake 

There to the nuns, and said, " Mine ene- 
mies 

Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 

Receive and j'ield me sanctuary, nor ask 

Her name to whom j^e yield it till her 
time 

To tell j'ou ; " and her beauty, grace, 
and ]5owev 

Wrought as a cliarm upon them, and 
they spared 

To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the 
nuns, 



Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, 

nor sought. 
Wrapt in lier grief, for housel or for 

shrift, 
But communed only with the little 

maid , 
Who pleased her with a babbling heed- 
lessness 
Which often lured her from herself ; 

but now. 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came that Sir Modred had usurp'd the 

realm 
And leagued him with the heatiien, 

wliile the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot. Tlien 

she tliought. 
" Witli what a hate the people and tlie 

King 
Must hate me," and bowVl down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until tlie little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering '■ Late ! so 

late! 
What, hour, I wonder now ?"and when 

she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air tlie nuns had taught her : " Late, 

so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd 

up and said. 
" O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my lieart that I may 

weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 

maid. 

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 
cliill I 
L.ite, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late 1 ye cannot enter now. 

" No light had we ; for that we do repent. 
And learning this, the britlegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

"No light I so late ! and dark and chill the 
night ! 
O, let us in, that we may find the light I 
Too late, too late I ye cannot enter now. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom is so 
sweet 1 
O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late 1 ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately, 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept 

the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice, prattling to 
her : 



BRITISH POETS 






"O pray you, noble lady, weep no 

nioie ; 
But let my words — tlie words of one so 

small, 
Who knowing nothing Iciiows but to 

obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows, for they do not 

flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that, 
Who sees your tender grace and state- 

liness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone 

is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot 

there, 
Round that strong castle where he holds 

the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of 

all. 
The traitor— Ah, sweet lady, the King's 

grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen 

and realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of 

ours 1 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not 

great ; 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and luive done ; 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good. 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this 

grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That, howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud ; 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness. 
But were I such a King it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 

"Will the child kill me with her inno- 
cent talk ? " 

But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 

If this false traitor have displaced his 
lord, [realm ? " 

Grieve with the common grief of all the 



"Yea," said the maid, "that all is 

woman's grief, 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years 

ago. 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen." 

Then thought the Queen within her- 
self again, 

" Will the cliild kill me with her foolisli 
prate ? " 

But openly slie spake and said to her, 

"O little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls, 

What canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " 

To wliom the little novice garrulously: 
" Yea, but I know ; the land was full of 

signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the 

Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was 

knight 
Of the great Table— at the founding of 

it. 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse ; and 

he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he 

heard 
Strange music, and he paused, and turn- 
ing — there. 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 
And with a wild sea-light about liis feet. 
He saw them — headland after headland 

flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west. 
And in the light the white mermaiden 

swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood 

from the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 

land. 
To whicli the little elves of chasm and 

cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant 

horn. 
So said my father — yea, and further- 
more, 



I 



TENNYSON 



529 



Next morning, while he past the dim-lit 

woods 
Himself beheld thi'ee spirits mad witli 

joy 

Come dashing down on a tall waj'side 

flower, 
That shook beneath them as the thistle 

shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the 

seed. 
And still at evenings on before liis 

horse 
The flickering fairj^-circle wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 

and broke 
Fl3ang, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of tiie 

hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the 

butts 
While the wine ran ; so glad were spirits 

and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat 

bitterly, 
"Were they so glad? ill prophets were 

they all, 
Spirits and men. Could none of them 

foresee. 
Not even th}' wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fallen upon the 

realm ? " 

To whom the novice garrulously 

again : 
" Yea, one, a bard, of whom my father 

said. 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Even in the presence of an enemy's 

fleet. 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and 

death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of the 

hills 

34 



With all their dewy hair blown back 

like flame. 
So said my father — and that night the 

bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail d 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois. 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave 

broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude 

and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and 

then 
They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea. 
And that was Arthur, and they foster 'd 

him 
Till he by miracle was approven King ; 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could 

he find 
A woman in her M'omanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang, 
The twain together well might change 

tlie world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the 

liarp, 
And pale he turn'd and reel'd, and would 

have fallen. 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor would 

he tell" 
His vision ; but what doubt that he fore- 
saw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen ? " 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they 

have set her on. 
Our simple-seeming abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me," and bow'd her head 

nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame on her own gari'ulity garrulously. 
Said the good nuns would check her 

gadding tongue 
Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the 

tales 
Which my good father told me, check 

me too 



S3< 



BRITISH POETS 



Nor let me shame my father's inemorj^ 

one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would 

say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 

died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back. 
And left me ; but of others who remain, 
And of the two first-famed for cour- 
tesy— 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss— - 
But pray you, wliich had noblest, wliile 

you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord tlie 

King ■? " 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her : 
"Sir Lancelot, as became a noble kniglit. 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or tlie tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly manner'd men of 

all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature and of noble mind." 

'* Yea," said the maid, " be manners 
such fair fruit? 
Tlien Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the 
world." 

To which a mournful answer made 

the Queen : 
" O, closed about by narrowing nunnery- 
walls. 
What knowest thou of the world and all 

its lights 
And shadows, all tlie wealth and all the 

woe ? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 
Were for one hour less noble than liim- 

self, 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of 

fire, 
And weep for her who drew him to his 

doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, " I pray 

for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that his. 



Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, 

liurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal : 
For here a sudden flusli of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, wlio 

cried : 
" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever ! thou tlieir tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon and harrj' me, petty spy 
And traitress ! " Wlien that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
And wlien the Queen had added, " Get 

I^Ik^q hence ! " 
Fled frighted. Then that other left 

alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather lieart again, 
Saving in herself : '" The simple, fearful 

child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful 

guilt. 
Simpler tlian any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, Heaven, for surely I re- 
pent ! 
For wliat is true repentance but in 

thouglit — 
Not even in inmost thought to think 

again 
The sins tliat made the past so pleasant 

to us? 
And I have sworn never to see him more, 
To see liim more." 

And even in saying this. 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In whicdi she saw him first, when Lan- 
celot came, 
Reputed the best knight and gooilliest 

man. 
Ambassador, to yield her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, — for 
the time 



, 



TENNYSON 



531 



Was may-time, and as yet no sin was 

dream'd, — 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacintli 
Tliat seem'd the heavens upbreaking 

thro' the earth. 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at n'^on in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By oouriei's gone before ; and on again. 
Till yet once more ere set of sun tliey 

saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
Tliat crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 

well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such 
a trance, 
And moving thro' the past unconscious- 

Came to that point where first she saw 

tlie King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to 

find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought liim cold, 
Higli, self-con tain'd, and passionless, not 

like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot*' — wliile she 

brooded thus 
And grew lialf-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
Tliere rode an armed warrior to the 

doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery 

ran. 
Then on a sudden a crj^ " The King ! " 

Siie sat 
Stiff -stricken, listening ; but when armed 

feet 
Thro' tlie long gallery from the outer 

doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against the 

floor. 
There with her milk-white arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the 

King, 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her ythen came silence, then a 

voice, 
Monotonous and liollow like a ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but, though 

changed, the King's : 



" Liest thou here so low, the child of 

one 
I honor'd, liappy, dead before thj^ shame ? 
Well is it that no child is Iwrn of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and 

fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 

Sea; 
Whom I, wliile yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm. 
The migiitiest of my knights, abode with 

me. 
Have everywhere about this land of 

Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I 

come — from him, 
From waging bitter war witli him ; and 

he. 
That did not shun to smite me in worse 

way. 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

left. 
He spared to lift his hand against the 

King 
Who made him knight. But many a 

kniglit was slain ; 
And many more and all his kith and 

kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred rai.sed 

revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modi'ed, and a remnant stajs with 

me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part, 
True men who love me still, for whom I 

live. 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming 

on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be 

harm'd. 
Fear not ; thou shalt be guarded till my 

death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my 

doom. 
Tliou hast not made mj^ life so sweet to 

me, 
That I the King should greatly care to 

live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my 

life. 
Bear with me for the last time whilel 

show. 



532 



BRITISH POETS 



Even for tliy sake, the sin wliicli thou 

hast sinn'd. [law 

For when the Roman left us, and their 
Relax'd its hold u})oii us, and tlie ways 
Were fiU'd with rapine, here and there 

a deed 
Of prowess done redress"d a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm and 

all 
The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men. 
To serve as model for the mighty world. 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break tlie heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 
To honor his own word as if his God's, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until tl\ey won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thougiit, and amiable 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a 

man. 
And all this throve before I wedded thee. 
Believing, " Lo, mine helpmate, one to 

feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy ! " 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lance- 
lot : 
Then came the sin of Tiistram and Isolt ; 
Then others. following these my 

mightiest knights. 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart liad destined did obtain. 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 
I guard as God's higli gift from scathe 

and wrong. 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he 

live, 



To sit once more within his lonely liall. 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before tliy sin. 
For which of us who might be left could 

speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at 

tliee ? 
And in tlij^ bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room 

to room, 
And I sliould evermore be vext with thee 
In lianging robe or vacant ornament, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord. 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to tliy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who eitlier for his own or children's 

sake, 
To save his blood from scandal, lets tlie 

wife 
Whom he knows false abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure. 
She like a new disease, unknown to men. 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd. 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and 

saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 

young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than tliou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people and their 

bane ! " 

He paused, and in the pause she crept 

an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew 
Then waiting by the doors the war-horse 

neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake 

again : 

"Yet think not that I come to urge, 
thy crimes ; 



TENNYSON 



533 



I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laj'ing there thy golden head, 
Jly pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
Tlie wrath which forced my thoughts on 

that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, — 
Wlien first I learned thee hidden here, — 

is past. 
The pang — wliich, while I weigh'd thy 

lieart witli one 
Too wliolly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also ijast — in 

part. 
And all is past, the sin is siini'd, and I, 
Lo, I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives ! do thou for thine own soul the 

rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 

golden Jiair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded 

form , 
And beauty such as never woman wore. 
Until it came a kingdom's curse witli 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's ; nay, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take tliy hand ; that too is flesli , 
And in the flesli thou hast sinn"d : and 

mine own flesh. 
Here looking down on thine polluted, 

cries, 
' I loathe thee ; ' yet not less, O Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
My love thro' flesh hath wrouglit into 

my life 
So far that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee 

still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, and 

thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave ine 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I 

hence. [blow. 

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet 



They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west, 
Where I must strike against the man 

they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, wlio 

leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, 

and kniglits. 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet 

myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the 

event ; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more — 
Farewell ! " 

And wdiile she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck. 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head 
Perceived the waving of his hands that 

blessed. 

Then, listening till those armed steps 

were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish 

found 
Tlie casement: " 2)erad venture," so she 

thought, 
"If I might see his face, and not be 

seen." 
And lo. he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the .sad nuns with each a 

light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about 

the Qupen, 
To guaiil and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd. 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 
Which then was as an angel's, but she 

saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of 

fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and 

more 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the i^hantom of a giant in 

it, 
Enwoimd him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 



534 



BRITISH t»OP:TS 



And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, uioviug ghostlike to his 
doom. 

Then she stretch 'd out her arms and 

ci'ied aloud, 
" O Arthur ! " there her voice brake sud- 

• denly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a 

cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

" Gone— my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 
Farewell? I should have answei-'d his 

farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 

the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him 

mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution. He, the 

King, 
Call'd me polluted. Shall I kill myself ? 
What help in that? I cannot kill my 

sin. 
If soul be soul, nor can I kill mj^ shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 

to mouths. 
The montlis will add themselves and 

make the years. 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the Avorld be ; that is but of the 

world — 
What else? what ho^ie? I think there 

was a liope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of 

hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never 

mocks. 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath for- 
given 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down 

sin 
And be his mate hereafter in tlie heavens 
Before high God ! Ali great and gentle 

lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 



Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, 

that took 
Full easily all impressions from below, 
Would not look up, or half-despised the 

height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that 

fine air, 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I yearn'd for warmth and color which I 

found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou 

art. 
Thou art the highest and most human 

too, 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 

late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great battle? 

none ! 
Myself must tell him in that purer life. 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God , 
What might I not have made of thy fair 

world. 
Had I but loved thj^ highest creature 

here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the 

highest ; 
It surely was my profit had I Ivuown ; 
It would have been my pleasure liad I 

seen. 
We needs must love the highest when 

we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd made her veil her eyes. She 

look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said 

to her, 
"Yea, little maid, for am I not for- 
given ? " 
Tlien glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart 

was loosed 
Within her, and she M'ept with these 
and said : 

" Ye know me then, that wicked one, 

who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King, 
O, shut me round witli narrowing nun- 

nerj'^ walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying, 

' Shame ! ' 



TENNYSON 



535 



I must not scorn myself ; he loves me 

still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me 

still. 
So let me, if you do not sliudder at me. 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you ; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun 

like you, 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at 

your joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your 

rites ; 
Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your 

shrines : 
Do eacli low office of your lioly house ; 
AYalk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
Wlio ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and lieal 

mine own ; 
And so wear ovit in alms-deed and in 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 

King." 

She said. They took her to themselves ; 
and she 

Still lioping, fearing " Isit yet too late? '' 

Dwelt with them, till in time their ab- 
bess died. 

Tlien she, for her good deeds and her pure 
life. 

And for tbe power of ministration in her. 

And likewise for the high rank she liad 
borne, 

Was chosen abbess, there, an abbess, 
lived 

For three brief years, and there, an ab- 
bess, passed 

To where beyond these voices there is 
peace. 1859. 

TITHONUS 

The woods decay, the woods decay and 
fall, 

The vapors weep their burthen to the 
ground, 

]\ran comes and tills the field and lies be- 
neath. 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortalitj'- 

Consumes ; I wither slowly in tiiine arms, 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 



A white-hair 'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of 

morn. 
Alas ! for tliis gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
Who madest liim thy cliosen, tliat he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a 

God! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with 

a smile, 
Like wealthj^ men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills. 
And beat me down and marr'd and 

wasted me. 
And tho' they could not end me, left me 

maim'd 
To dwell in presence of inimortal youth, 

Immortal age beside immortal youtli^ 

And all I was in ashes. Can thy love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 

now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill 

with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go ; take back thy 

gift. 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordina:ice 
Where all should pause, as is niost meet 

for all ? 
A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I 

was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure. 
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to 

mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise. 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosen'd niiines. 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 
Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 



536 



BRITISH POETS 



In silence, then before thine answer 

given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my 

cheek. 
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 

tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-oflf. on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
"The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 
Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 
son 'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half -opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 
Yet hold me not for ever in thine 

East ; 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine? 
Coldly tljy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrink- 
led feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 

the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes [die. 

Of happy men that have the power to 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the 

ground. [grave ; 

Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn, [courts. 

I earth in earth forget these empty 
And thee returning on thy silver wl)eels. 

1860. 



THE SAILOR BOY 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar. 

And reach'd the ship and cauglit the 
rope. 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and j^easty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 
To sit with empty hands at home. 

' ' My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ; ' 

My father raves of death and wi-eck, — 
They are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

' ' God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 
Far worse than any death to me." 

1861. 

MILTON 

(ALCAICS) 

O MIGHTY-MOUTH'd inventor of harmo- 
nies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages : 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel. 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armo- 
ries, 
Tower, as the deep-domed eminrean 
Rings to tlie roar of an angel onset ! 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a. wanderer out in ocean, 
Wliere some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 

1863. 



TENNYSON 



537 



THE VOYAGE 

We left behind the painted buoy 

Tliat tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the south. 
How fresh was everj^ sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 

Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow, 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail ; 
Tlie lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the 
gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to. meet the keel, 

And swept behind ; so quick the run 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 

We seem'd to sail into the sun ! 

How oft we saw tlie sun retire, 

And burn the thresliold of the niglit, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 

New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They clinib'd as quickly, for the rim 

Chctnged every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield. 

The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen ; 
We passed long lines of Northern ca])es 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, aiul deep 

Across the boundless east we drove. 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast. 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glovv'd for a nioment as we passed. 



O hundred shores of happy climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the wliole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruit nor 
flowers. 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we folio w"d where she led. 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixed upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, " Omy queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine ! " 

Aiul now we lost her, now she gleani'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the ])row she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 
sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

And only one among us — him 

We jileased not — he was seldom 
pleased ; 
He saw not far, his eyes were dim. 

But ours he swore were iiU diseased. 
■' A ship of fools," he shriekM in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his bod}-, and on we swept. 

And never sail of ours was furi'd. 

Nor anchor dropi)ed at eve oi- morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world. 

But laws of nature were our scorn. 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

But whence were those that drove the 
sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter gale ? 

Again to colder climes we came. 

For still we follow"d where she led ; 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 

We follow that -which flies before ; 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 

1864. 



538 



BRITISH POETS 



NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea 

liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse? thoort nowt o' anoorse; whoy, 

Doctor 's abean an' agoan ; 
Says that I nioant 'a naw moor aale, but 

I beaut a fool ; 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gavvin' 

to break my rule. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says 

what 's nawwaj's true ; 
Naw soort o' koiiid o' use to saay the 

things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noiglit 

sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I 've *ed my quart ivry market- 

noight for foorty year. 

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 

ere o' my bed. 
"Tlie Amoighty 's a taakin o' you^ to 

'issen, my friend," a said. 
An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe 

were due, an' I gied it in bond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 

boy the loud. 

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot 

sa mooch to larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy 

Harris's barne. 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' 

Squoire an' choorch an' staate, 
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver 

agin the raate. 

An' I liallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor 

moy Sally wur dead. 
An' 'eard 'um a bvmunin' awaay loike a 

buzzard-clock ^ ower my 'ead. 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but 

I thowt a 'ad sunimut to saay, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, 

an' I coom'd awaay. 

Bessy Harris's barne ! tha knaws she 

laaid it to mea. 
Blowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a 

bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, 

tha mun understond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 

boy the lond. 

1 oil as in hour. [The notes on this poem are 
Tennyson's. 1 
^ Cockchafer. 



But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a 

says it ea.sy an' freea : 
"The Amoighty s a taakin o' you to 

'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw suni- 

mun said it in 'aaste ; 
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak. an' I 

'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 

D' ya moind tlie waaste, mj^ lass ? naw, 

naw, tha was not born then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 

'um mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-buuqi,i fur I 'eaid 

'um about an' about. 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' 

raaved an' rembled 'um out. 

Keaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer 

a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woikl 'enemies ^ afbor I 

coom'd to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^ "ed shot 

'um as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur "ang'd for it oop at 'soiZ9 — 

but git ma my aale. 

Dubbut loook at the waaste ; theer 

warn't not feead for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' 

loook at it now — 
Warn't wortli nowt a haacre, an' now 

theer 's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor yows* u)ion it, an' some on it 

down i' seead.^ 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 

'a stubb'd it at fall. 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow 

thruff it an' all. 
If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let 

ma aloan, — 
Hea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' 

Squoire's, an lond o' my oan. 

Do Godamoighty knaw wliat a's doing 
a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yon- 
der a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'nil be sa mad an' all — a' 
dear, a' dear ! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire coom 
Hichaelmas thutty year. 

A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not 

a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins — a 

niver mended a fence ; 



1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. 
* ou as in hour. 



5 One or other. 
■^ Clover. 



TENNYSON 



539 



But Godainoighty a iiioost taake niea an' 

taake ma now, 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby 

hoalms to plow ! 

Loook 'ow quoloty snioiles when they 

seeas ma a passin' boy, 
Says to thessen, naw doubt, " What a 

man a bea sevver-loy ! " 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire 

sin' fust a coom'd to the 'AH ; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done 

moy duty boy hall. 

S(iuoire ' s i' Lunnon, an' sunimun I 

reckons 'nil 'a to wroite, 
For whoa 's to liowd the lond ater mea 

thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea tliot a weant niver 

give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver 

renihles the stoans. 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap 

wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds 

wi' tlie divil's oan team. 
Sin' I mun doy I niun doy, thaw loife 

tliey says is sweet, 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I 

couldn abear to see it. 

What atta stannin' tlieer fur, an' doesn 

bring ma the aale ? 
Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' 

tlie owd taale ; 
I weant lireak rules fur Doctor, a knaws 

naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale. I tell tha, an' if I mun 

doy I mun doy. 1864. 

THE FLOWER i 

Once in a golden liour 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Up tliere came a flower. 

The people said, a weed . 

To and fro they went 
Tluo' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed nie and my flower. 

Tlien it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light. 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed l)y night ; 

* See the Life of Tennyson II, 10-11. 



Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most (;an raise the flowers now 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 1SG4. 

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 

All along tlie valley, stream thatflashest 

white, 
Deepening thy voice witli the deepening 

of the niglit. 
All along the valley, where thy waters 

flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty 

j^ears ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd to- 
day, 
Tlie two and thirty years were a mist 

that rolls away ; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky 

bed, 
Tliy living voice to me was as the voice 

of the dead. 
And all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree. 
The voice of tlie dead was a living voice 

to me. 1864. 

A DEDICATION 

Dear, near and true, — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tlio' he make you ever- 
more 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall, — take this and pray 

that he 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith 

in him. 
May trust himself ; and after jwaise and 

scorn , [world , 

As one who feels the immeasurable 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

night, [fruit 

Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 
Which in our winter woodlainl looks a 

flower. 1864. 



S40 



BRITISH POETS 



WAGES 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory 

of song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost 

on an endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to 

riglit the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no 

lover of glory she ; 
Give her the glory of going on, and still 

to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages 

of Virtue be dust. 
Would she have heart to endure for 

the life of the worm and the fl}' ? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet 

seats of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask 

in a summer sky ; 
Give her the wages of going on, and not 

to die. , 1868. 

FROM THE COMING OF ARTHUR 
merlin's riddle 

Rain, rain, and sun I a rainbow in the 

sky ! 
A young man will be wiser by and by ; 
An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 

Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the 

lea! 
And trutli is this to me, and th.at to tliee ; 
And trutli or clothed or naked let it be. 

Rain, sun, and rain ! and tlie free blos- 
som blows ; 

Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who 
knows ? 

From the great deep to the great deep 
he goes. 

TRUMPET SONG 

Blow trumpet, for the world is white 

with May ! 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath roU'd 

away ! 
Blow thro' the living world — " Let the 

King reign ! " 

Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's 

realm ? 
Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe 

upon helm. 
Fall biittle-axe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 



Strike for the King and live ! his knights 

have heard 
That Goel hath told the King a secret 

word. 
Fall battle-axe, and flash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 

Blow trumpet 1 he will lift us from the 

dust. 
Blow trumpet I live the strength, and 

die the lust ! 
Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 

Strike for the King and die ! and if thou 

diest. 
The King is king, and ever wills the 

highest. 
Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 

Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May I 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 

day! 
Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 

The King will follow Christ, and we the 

King, 
In whom higli God hath breathed a 

secret (liing. 
Fall battle-axe. and clash brand ! Let 

the King reign ! 1869. 

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, 
the hills and tlie plains, — 

Are not these, OSoul, the Vision of Him 
who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that 

wliich He seems? 
Dreams are true wliile they last, and do 

we not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 

body and limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy 

division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee ; thyself art 

the reason why. 
For is He not all but thou, that hast 

power to feel " I am I " "? 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and 
thou fulfillest thy doom. 

Making Him broken gleams and a stifled 
splendor and gloom. 






TENNYSON 



541 



Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and 
Spirit with Spirit can meet — 

Closer is He tliau breathing, and nearer 
than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O soul, and 

let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is 

yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some ; no God at all, 

says tlie fool. 
For all we have power to see is a straight 

statf bent in a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and tlie 

eye of man cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this 

Vision — were it not He ? 1870. 

FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the cramiies. 

I liold you here, root and all, in my 

hand, 
Little flower — but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in 

all, 
I should know what God and man is. 

1870. 

NORTHERN FARMER 

NEW^ STYLE 

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they 

canters- awaay ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's 

wliat I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputt3% proputty — Sam, 

thou's an ass for thy pa'ins ; 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, nor 

in all tliy brains. 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, 
Sam : yon 's parson's 'ouse — ■ 

Dosn't thou knaw tliat a man mun be 
eather a man or a mouse ? 

Time to think on it tlien ; for thou'll be 
twenty to weeak.^ 

Proputt3\ proputty — woa then, woa — let 
ma 'ear mysen speak. 

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean 

a-talkin' o' tliee ; 
Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she 

bean a-tellin' it me. 
Thou'll not marry for niunny — tliou's 

sweet upo' parson's lass — 

* This week. 



Noa — thou '11 n\arry for luvv — an' we 
boath on us thinks tha an ass. 

Seea'd her to-daay goa by — Saaint's daay 

— tliey was ringing the bells. 
She's a beauty, thou thinks — an' soa is 

scoors o' gells. 
Them as 'as munny an' all — vvot's a 

beauty? — the flower as blaws. 
But proputt\', proputty sticks, an' jno- 

putty, proputty grows. 

Do'ant be stunt ;i taake time. I knaws 

what maakes tha samad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses ni)'sen 

when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quanker feller as often 

'as towd ma this : 
" Doant thou many for munny, but goa 

wheer munny is ! " 

An' I went wheer munny war ; an' thy 

muther coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish 

bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty — Iniver giv 

it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss 

as a lass as 'ant nowt "? 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a 

now4 when 'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness. lad, or summut, and 

addle ^ her bread. 
Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' 

weant niver get liissen clear. 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 

'e coom'd to the shere. 

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots 

o' Varsity debt. 
Stock to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant 

got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' 

noan to lend 'ini a shove. 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd ^ j-owe ; fur, 

Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 

Luvv ? what's luw ? thou can luvv thy 

lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither, as they've good 

right to do. 
Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause 'o 

'er munny laaid by ? 
Naay— f ur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor 

fur it ; reason why. 

1 Obstinate. =* Earn. 

3 Or, fow-welter'd,— said of a sheeplj'ingon its 
back in the furrow. 



542 



BRITISH POETS 



Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to 

marry tlie lass, 
Coonis of a gentleman burn ; an' we 

boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass as 

near as mays nowt ^ — 
Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha !— the bees 

is as fell as owt.^ 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, 

lad, out o' tl»e fence,! 
Gentleman burn ! what s gentleman 

burn? is it shillins an' pence ? 
Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', 

Sammy, I'm blest 
If it is n't the saame oop yonder, fur 

them as 'as it 's the best. 

Tis 'n them as 'as ntiunny as breaks into 

'ouses an' steals. 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an" 

taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer 

a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it Sammy, the poor 

in a loomp is bad. 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a 

bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' wliin- 

iver munny was got. 
Peyther 'ad amniost nowt ; leastways 'is 

munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd issen dead, an' 'e 

died a good un, 'e did. 

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck 

cooms out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs 

oop to the mill ; 
An' I '11 run oojj to the brig, an' that 

thou '11 live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good un I '11 leave 

the land to thee. 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby 

I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave 

the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's 

what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter 

an' canter awaay. 1870. 

ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1783 

O THOU that sendest out the man 
To rule by land and sea, 

' Makes nothing. 

2 The flies are as fierce as anything. 



Strong mother of a lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 
Who wrench'd their rights from thee ! 

What wonder if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood. 
Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught. 
And in tliy spirit with thee fought — 
Who sprang from English blood ! 

But tliou rejoice with liberal joy. 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
And shatter, when the storms are black. 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

Tlie growing world assume, 
Tliy work is thine — tlie single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden 
smote 

Will vibrate to the doom. 1873. 

THE VOICE AND THE PEAK 

The voice and the Peak, 

Far over summit and lawn, 
Tlie lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 

All night have I heard the voice 

Rave over the rocky bar, 
But thou wert silent in heaven, 

Above thee glided the star. 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak. 

That standest high above all ? 
" I am the voice of the Peak, 

I roar and rave, for I fall. 

" A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 

And moan and sink to their rest. 

" The fields are fair beside them, 
Tlie chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the 
deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 

" The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the deep ; 

They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep." 

Not raised for ever and ever, 
But when their cycle is o'er, 



TENNYSON 



543 



The valley, the voice, the peak, the star 
Pass, and are found no more. 

The Peak is high and flush'd 
At liis highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 

A deep below the deep. 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 

And our seeing is not sight. 

The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from tlie rosy tlirones 
of dawn ! I«'r4. 

LYRICS FROM QUEEN MARY 
milkmaid's song 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shame iii)on 3'ou now ! 
Kiss me would you? witli my hands 

Milking tlie cow ? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kingcups blow again, 
And yovi came and kissYl me milking 
the cow. 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well, I vow. 
Cuflfhim could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Swallows fly again. 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking 
the cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Helj) it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Ringdoves coo again. 

All tilings woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking 
the cow ! 

LOW, LUTE, low! 

Hapless doom of woman happy in be- 
trothing ! 

Beauty passes like a breath, and love is 
lost in loathing. 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but 
say the world is nothing — 
Low, lute, low ! 



Love will hover round the flowers when 

they first awaken ; 
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be 

overtaken. 
L(nv, my lute I O, low, my lute ! we fade 
and are forsaken — 

Low% dear lute, low ! 

1875. 

MONTENEGRO 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 
sails. 

They kept their faith, their freedom, on 
the height. 

Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
and night 

Against the Turk ; wbose inroad no- 
where scales 

Their headlong passes, but his footstep 
fails, 

And red with blood the Crescent reels 
from fight 

Before their dauntless hundreds, in 
prone flight 

By thousands down the crags and thro' 
the vales. 

O smallest among peoples ! rougb rock- 
throne 

Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the 
swarm 

Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years. 

Great Tsernogora.! never since thine own 

Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 
the storm 

Has breathed a race of mightier moun- 
taineers. 1877. 

THE REVENGE ^ 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 



At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, 

came flying from faraway ; 
"Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have 

sighted fifty -three ! " 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 

" 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear. 
And the half my men are sick. I must 

fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we 

fight with fifty-three ? " 

1 See the Life of Tennyson, II. 251-2. 



544 



BRITISH POETS 



Then spake Sir Richard Greuville : "1 
know you are no coward ; 

You fly them for a moment to fight with 
them again. 

But I 've ninet_y men and more that are 
lying sick ashore. 

I should count myself the coward if I 
left them, my Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and tlie devil- 
doms of Spain." 

Ill 

So Lord Howard past away with five 

ships of war that day, 
Till lie melted like a cloud in the silent 

summer heaven : 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick 

men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below : 
For we brought them all aboard. 
And they blest him in their pain, that 

they were not left to Spain, 
To tlie tliumb-screw and the stake, for 

the glory of the Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work 

the ship and to fight 
And he sailed away from Florestill the 

Spaniard came in sight, 
Witli his huge sea-castles heaving upon 

the weather bow. 
" Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There '11 be little of us left by the time 

tl^is sun be set." 
And Sir Richard said again : "We be all 

good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil. 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or 

devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 
we roar'd a hurrah, and so 

The little Revenge ran on sheer into the 
heart of the foe, 

With her liundred fighters on deck, and 
her ninety sick below ; 



For half of their fleet to the right and 
half to the left were seen. 

And the little Revenge ran on thro" the 
long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd down 

from their decks and laugh'd, 
Tiiousands of their seamen made mock 

at the mad little craft 
Running on and on. till delay'd 
B}- tlieir mountain-like San Philip that, 

of fifteen hundred to)is. 
And up-shadowing high above us with 

her j'awning tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we 

.stay'd. 

VII 

And while now the great San Pliilip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that daj% 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay. 

And the battle-thunder broke from them 
all. 

VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought herself and went. 

Having that within her womb that had 
left her ill content ; 

And tlie rest they came aboard us, and 
they fought us hand to liand. 

For a dozen times they came with tlieir 
pikes and musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we sliook 'em off as a 
dog that shakes his ears 

When he leaps from the water to the 
land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars 

came out far over the summer 

sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of 

the one and tlie fifty-thi'ee. . 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came. 
Ship after sliip, the wliole night long, 

with her battle-thunder and flame; 
Ship after .ship, the whole night long. 

drew back with her dead and her 

shame. 
For some were sunk and many were 

shatter'd, and so could fight us no 

more — 



TENNYSON 



545 



God of battles, was ever a battle like 
this in the world before ? 



For lie said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 

Tho' his vessel w;i,s all but a wreck ; 

And it chanced that, when half of the 
short summer night was gone, 

With a grisly wouiid to be drest he had 
left tlie deck, 

But a bullet struck liim that was dress- 
ing it suddenly dead, 

And himself he was wounded again in 
the side and the head. 

And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 



And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the sunimer 

sea, 
And the Spanisli fleet witli broken sides 

lay round us all in a ring ; 
But tiiey dared not touch us again, for 

tliey fear'd that we still could 

sting, 
So they watch'd wliat the end would be. 
And we had not fouglit them in vain, 
But in perilous pliglit were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the 

desiderate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were 

most of tliem stark and cold. 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, 

and the powder was all of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were 

lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

pride : 
' ' We have fought such a fight for a day 

and a niglit 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or moi'e 
At sea or ashore. 
We die — does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink 

her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the 

hands of Spain I " 

XII 

And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the 
seamen made reply : 

35 



" We have children, we have wives. 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if 

we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike 

another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagsliip bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richai-d cavight at last. 
And tliey praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he 

cried : 
" I have fought for Queen and Faith 

like a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do. 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren- 

ville die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he 

died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden tlie power and glory of 

Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few ; 
Was lie devil or man ? He was devil for 

aught tliey knew. 
But they sank his body with honor down 

into the deep. 
And they mann'd the Revenge witli a 

swarthier alien crew. 
And away she sail'd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
And tlie water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great 

gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised 

by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails 

and their masts and their flags. 
And tlie whole sea plunged and fell on 

the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

1878. 



546 



BRITISH POETS 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOWi 



Banner of England, not for a season, O 

banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapped 

to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when 

we had rear'd thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly 

siege of Lucknow — 
Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but 

ever we raised tliee anew, 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Frail were the works that defended the 

hold that we held with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God 

help them, our children and wives! 
Hold it we might— and for fifteen days 

or for twenty at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his i^ost ! " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our 

Lawrence, the best of the brave ; 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night in 

his grave. 
*' Every man die at his post ! " and there 

hail'd on our houses and halls 
Death from their rifle bullets, and death 

from their cannon-balls. 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our sliglit barricade. 
Death while we stood with the musket, 

and death while we stooped to the 

spade. 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the 

wounded, for often there fell. 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing 

thro' it, their shot and their shell. 
Death — for their spies were among us. 

their marksmen were told of our 

best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the 

brain that could think for the 

rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 

and bullets would rain at our 

feet — 

> " The old flag used during the defence of the 
Residency, was hoisted on the Lucknow flagstaff 
by General Wilson, and the soldiers who still 
survived from the siege were all mustered on 
parade in honor of this poem, when my son 
Lionel (who died on his journey from India) 
visited Lucknow. A tribute overwhelmingly 
touching.'" (Tennyson.) 



Fire from ten thousand at once of the 
If rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over tlie breadth of a street. 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in the 

ground ! 
Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! 

down, down! and creep thro'tlie 

hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand I you can 

hear him — the murderous mole ! 
Quiet , ah ! quiet — wait till the point of 

the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and 

nearer again than before — 
Now let it .speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 

times, and it chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground 

thunder-clap echo'd away 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulpliur 

like so man)" fiends in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 

volley, and yell upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad 

enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? 

Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 

Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as 

ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 

daily drowned by the tide — 
So many thousands that, if they be bold 

enough, who shall escape? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall 

know we are soldiers and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their 

masses are gapp'd with our grape- 
Backward they reel like the wave, like 

the wave fingering forward again, 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the 

handful they could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 

IV 

Handful of men as we were, we were 
English in heart and in limb. 

Strong with the strength of the race to 
command, to obey, to endure. 



TENNYSON 



547 



Each of us fought as if hope for the gar- 
rison hung but on hiui ; 
Still — could we watch at all points? we 

were every day fewer and fewer. 
Tliere was a whisper among us, but only 

a whisper that past : 
" Ciiildren and wives — if the tigers leap 

into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe 

may outlive us at last — • 
Better to fall by tlie liands that they 

love, than to fall into theirs ! " 
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines 

by the enemy sprung 
Clove into i^erilous chasms our walls and 

our poor palisades. 
Riflemen, true is j'our heai't, but be sure 

tliat your hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 

are your flank fusilades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from 

the ladders to which they had 

clung, 
Twice from the ditcli where they slielter 

we drive them with hand-gre- 
nades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew ! 



Then on another wild morning anotlier 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there 

from the light of the sun 
One has leaped up on the breach, crj'ing 

out : " Follow me, follow me ! " — 
Mark him — he falls ! then another and 

him too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enougii then, who 

can tell but the traitors had won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an 

embrasure ! make way for the gun ! 
Now double-charge it witli grape ! It is 

charged and we fire, and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and few. 
Fought with the bravest among us, and 

drove them, and smote them, and 

slew. 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and not 
what we do. We can fight ! 



But to be soldier all day, and be sentinel 

all thro' the night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 

their lying alarms. 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 

shoutings and soundings to arms. 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 

done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one 

sliould be left alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death 

from the loopholes around. 
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse 

to be laid in the ground. 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge 

of cataract skies. 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite 

torment of flies, 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing 

over an English field. 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 

that looidd not be heal'd, 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful- 
pitiless knife. — 
Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never 

could save us a life. 
Valor of delicate women who tended 

the hospital bed. 
Horror of women in travail among the 

dying and dead. 
Grief for our perishing children, and 

never a moment for grief, 
Toil and ineffable weax'iness, faltering 

hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd 

for all tliat we knew — 
Then day and night, day and night, com- 
ing down on the still-shatter'd 

walls 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 

VII 

Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true 

wliat was told by the scout. 
Outran! and Havelock breaking their 

way through the fell mutineers ? 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing 

again in our ears ? 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a 

jubilant shout. 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer 

with conquering cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women 

and children come out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of 

Havelock's good fusileers, 



548 



BRITISH POETS 



Kissing tlie war-harden"d hand of the 

Highhmder wet with their tears ! 
Dance to the pibrocli ! — saved ! we are 

saved ! — is it 3^111? is it you? 
Saved hy the valor of Havelock, saved 

by the blessing of heaven ! 
"Hold it for fifteen days!" vi^e have 

held it for eighty-seven ! 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old 

banner of England blew. 1879. 

RIZPAHi 

it- 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 

over land and sea — 
And Will3''s voice in the vrind, " O 

mother, come out to me ! " 
Why should he call me to-night, when 

he knows that I cannot go? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and 

the full moon stares at the snow. 

We should be seen, my dear ; they would 

spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down, 
Wlien I cannot see my own hand, but 

am led by the creak of the chnin. 
And grovel and grope for my son till I 

find myself drenched with the 

rain. 

Anything fallen again ? nay — what was 

there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have num- 

ber'd the bones, I have hidden 

theni all. 
What am I saying? and what are you ? 

do you come as a spy ! 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the 

tree falls so must it lie. 

Who let her in ? how long has she been ? 

you — what have you heard ? 
Why did you sit so quiet? you never 

have spoken a word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none 

of their spies — 
But the night has crept into nay heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 

Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 
should you know of the night. 

The blast and the burning shame and 
the bitter frost and the fright ? 

I have done it, while you were asleep — 
you wei'e only made for the day. 

» See the Life of Tennyson II, 349-351. 



I have gather'd my baby together — and 
now you may go your way. 

Nay — for it 's kind of you, madam, to sit 

by an old djajig wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I liave 

only an hour of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he 

went out to die. 
" They dared me to do it," he said, and 

he never has told me a lie. 
I whipped him for robbing an orchard 

once when he was but a child— 
" The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; 

lie was always so wild — 
And idle — and could n't be idle — my 

Willy — he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a sol- 
dier, he would have been one of 

his best. 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 

and they never would let him be 

good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the 

mail, and he swore that he would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one 

l)urse, and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — "I'll 

none of it," said my son. 

I came into court to the judge and the 

lawyers. I told them my tale, 
God's own truth — but they kill'd him, 

they kill'd him for robbing the 

mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show — 

we had always borne a good 

name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then put 

away — is n't that enough shame ? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! 

but they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could 

stare at him, passing b3^ 
God '11 pardon the hell-black raven and 

horrible fowls of the air. 
But not the black heart of the lawyer 

who kill'd him and hang'd him 

there. 

And the jailer forced me away. I had 

bid him my last good-bye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 

" O mother ! " I heard him cry. 
I could n't get back tho" I tried, he had 

something further to say. 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 



TENNYSON 



549 



Then since I could n't but hear that cry 
of my boy that was dead, 

They seized me and sliut me up : they 
fasten'd me down on my bed. 

" Mother, O mother ! " — lie call'd in tlie 
dark to me year after year — 

They beat me for that, tliey beat me — 
you knovv that I could n't but 
hear ; 

And then at the last they found I had 
grown so stupid and still 

They let me abroad again — but the crea- 
tures had worked their will. 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of 

my bone was left— 
I stole them all from the lawj^ers — and 

you, will you call it a theft? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, 

the bones that had laughed and 

had cried — 
Theirs ? O, no ! they are mine— not 

theirs — they had moved in my 

side. 

Do you think I was scared by the bones ? 

I kiss'd 'em, T buried 'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night 

by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy '11 rise up whole when the. 

trumpet of judgment '11 sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I 

laid him in holy ground. 

They would scratch liim up — they would 

hang him again on the cursed tree. 
Sin? O, yes, we are sinners, I knovv — let 

all that be, 
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's 

goodwill toward men — 
" Full of compassion and mercy, the 

Lord "—let me hear it again ; 
" Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
suffering." Yes, O. yes! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder — 

the Saviour lives but to bless. 
He '11 never put on the black cap except 

for the worst of the worst. 
And the first may be last — I have heard 

it in chui'ch — and the last may be 

first. 
Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, as the 

Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind 

and the shower and the snow; 

Heard, have you? what? they have told 
you he never repented his sin. 

How do they know it? are they his 
mother ? are you of his kin ? 



Heard ! have you ever heard, when the 
storm on the downs began. 

The wind that '11 wail like a child and 
the sea that '11 moan like a man ? 

Election, Election, and Reprobation — 

it 's all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I sliall 

not find him in hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the 

Lord has look'd into my care, 
And He means me I 'm sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 

And if he be lost — but to save my soul, 

that is all your desire — 
Do you think that I care for viy soul if 

liiy boy be gone to the fire ? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, 

go, you may leave me alone — 
You never have Jborne a child — you are 

just as hard as a stone. 

Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 
that you mean to be kind. 

But I cannot hear what you say for my 
Willy's voice in the wind — 

The snow and the sky so bright — he 
used but to call in the dark. 

And he calls to me now from the 
church and not from the gibbet — 
for hark ! 

Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 
coming — shaking the walls — 

Willy — the moon 's in a cloud Good- 
night. I am going. He calls. 

1880. 

SONG FROM THE SISTERS 

O DIVINER air. 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, the 

glare. 
Far from out the west in shadowing 

showers. 
Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers. 
Fainting flowers, faded bowers. 
Over all this weary world of ours. 
Breathe, diviner Air ! 

O diviner light. 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with 

night. 
Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 

showers. 
Far from out a sky for ever bright, 
Over all the woodland's flooded bowers, 



55° 



BRITISH POETS 



Over all the meadow's drowning flowers, 
Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 
Break, diviner light 1 1880. 

TO VIRGIL 1 

Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's 
lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and 
filial faith, and Dido's pyre ; 

Landscape-lover, lord of language more 
than lie that sang the " Works and 
Days," 

All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out 
from many a golden phrase ; 

Tliou that singest wheat and woodland » 
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 
and herd ; 

All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word ; 

Poet of the happy Tityrus piping under- 
neath his beechen bowers ; 

Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laugh- 
ing sheplierd bound with flowers ; 

Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the 
blissful years again to be. 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, un- 
laborious eai'th and oarless sea ; 

Thou that seest Universal Nature moved 

by Universal JMind ; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness at the 

doubtful doom of human kind ; 

Light among the vanish'd ages ; star 

that gildest yet tliis phantom 

shore ; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, kings 

and realms tliat pass to rise no 

more ; 

Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen 
every purple Caesar's dome — 

Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound 
forever of Imperial Rome — 

Now the Rome of slaves hath perisli'd, 
and the Rome of freemen liolds lier 
place, 

I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd 
once from all the human race, 

• " To Virgil was written at the request of tlie 
Mantuans for the nineteenth centenary of Virgil's 
Death." (Life of Teunysou, II, 320.) 



I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved 
thee since my day began, 

Wielder of the stateliest measure ever 
moulded by the lips of man. 

1882. 

"FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE" 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your 

Sirmione row ! 
So they row'd, and there we landed— " O 

venusta Sirmio ! " 
There to me thro' all the groves of olive 

in the summer glow. 
There beneath the Roman ruin where the 

purple flowers grow. 
Came that " Ave atque Vale" of the 

Poet's hopeless woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen 

hundred years ago 
" Frater Ave atque Vale" — as we 

wander'd to and fro 
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 

Garda Lake below 
Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 1883. 

EPILOGUE TO THE CHARGE OF 
THE HEAVY BRIGADE 

And here the Singer for his art 

Not all in vain may plead 
" The song that nerves a nation's heart 

Is in itself a deed.'' 1885. 

VASTNESS 

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs 
after many a vanish'd face, 

Many a planet by many a sun may roll 
with the dust of a vanish'd race. 

Raving politics, never at rest — as this 
]i()or eartli's pale liistorv runs, — 

Wliat is it all but a trouble of ants in the 
gleam of a million million of suns ? 

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, 

truthless violence mourn'd by the 

wise. 
Thousands of voices drowning his own 

in a popular torrent of lies upon 

lies ; 

Stately purposes, Aalor in battle, glorious 
annals of arjny and fleet. 

Death for tlie riglit cause, deatli for the 
wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 
groans of defeat ; 



TENNYSON 



551 



Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, 

and Charity setting the martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner of 

Freedom, and recks not to ruin a 

realm in her name. 

Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the 

gloom of doubts that darken the 

schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her 

hand, foUow'd up by her vassal 

legion of fools ; 

Trade flying over a tliousand seas with 
her spice and her vintage, her silk 
and her corn ; 

Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, fam- 
ishing populace, wharves forlorn ; 

Star of the morning, Hope in the sun- 
rise ; gloom of the evening, Life 
at a close ; 

Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down- 
way with her flying robe and her 
poison'd rose ; 

Pain that has crawl'd from the corpse of 

Pleasure, a worm vvhicli writhes 

all day, and at night 
Stirs vip again in the heart of the sleeper, 

and stings him back to the curse 

of the light ; 

Wealth w'ith his wines and his wedded 
harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to 
tlie bone ; 

Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; Flat- 
tery- gilding the rift in a throne ; 

Fame blowing out from her golden trum- 
pet a jubilant challenge to Time 
and to Fate ; 

Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle 
on all the laurell'd graves of the 
great ; 

Love for the maiden, crown'd with mar- 
riage, no regrets for aught that 
has been. 

Household happiness, gracious children, 
debtless competence, golden mean ; 

National liatreds of whole generations, 
and pigmy spites of the village 
spire ; 

Vows that will last to the last death- 
ruckle, and vows that are snapted 
in a moment of fire ; 



He that has lived for the lust of the 

minute, and died in the doing it, 

flesh without mind ; 
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, 

till Self died out in the love of his 

kind ; 

Spring and Summer and Autumn and 
Winter, and all these old revolu- 
tions of earth ; 

All new-old revolutions of Empire- 
change of the tide — what is all of 
it worth ? 

What the philosophies, all the sciences, 
poesy, varying voices of prayer. 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, all 
that is filthy with all that is fair ? 

What is it all, if we all of us end but in 
being our own corpse-coffins at 
last? 

Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 
drown'd in the deeps of a meaning- 
less Past ? 

What but a murmur of gnats in the 
gloom, or a moment's anger of 
bees in their hive ? — 

Peace, let it be ! for I loved him. and 
love him for ever : the dead are 
not dead but alive. 1885. 

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 1 

YOUNG Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-cliff, 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With eyes of wonder, 

1 am Merlin , 
And Jam dying, 
I am Merlin 

Who follow the Gleam. 

Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping and woke me 
And learn'd me Magic ! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley, 
In early summers, 
Over the mountain. 
On human faces, 

1 See the Life of Teunyson, II, 366. 



552 



BRITISH POETS 



And all around me, 
Moving to melody, 
Floated the Gleam. 

Once at the croak of a Raven who 
crossed it, 
A barbarous people, 
Blind to the magic 
And deaf to the melody, 
Snarl'd at and cursed me. 
A demon vexed me, 
Tlie light retreated, 
The landskip darken'd, 
The melody deaden'd. 
The Master whisper'd, 
" Follow the Gleam." 

Then to the melody. 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland. 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows, 

And wraiths of tiie mountain, 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents. 

Flitted the Gleam. 

Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 

And sti'eaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland, 

Innocent maidens. 

Garrulous children. 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner. 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labor, 

Slided the Gleam — 

Then, with a melody 
Stronger and statelier, 
Led me at length 
To the city and palace 
Of Arthur the King ; 
Touch'd at the golden 
Cross of the churches, 
Flash'd on the tournament, 
Flicker'd and bicker'd 
From helmet to helmet. 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested the Gleam. 



Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot ; 

Arthur had vanish'd 

I knew not whither. 

The king who loved me, 

And cannot die ; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 
The Gleam, tliat had waned to a wintry 
glimmer 

On icy fallow 

And faded forest, 

Di"evv^ to the valley 

Named of the shadow, 

And slowly brightening 

Out of the glimmer, 
And slowly moving again to a melody 

Yearningly tender. 

Fell on the shadow. 

No longer a shadow. 

But clothed with the Gleam. 

And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward, 

Wed to the melody, 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 

Old and wear}\ 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 

That under the Crosses 

Tlie dead man's garden, 

The mortal hillock, 

Would break into blossom ; 

And so to the land's 

Last limit I came — 

And can no longer. 

But die rejoicing. 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the bordej" 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers the Gleam. 

Not of the sunlight. 

Not of the moonlight. 

Not of the starlight ! 

O young Mariner, 

Down to the haven. 

Call your companions, 

Launch your vessel 

And crowd your canvas, 

And, ere it vanishes 

Over the margin. 

After it, follow it. 

Follow tiie Gleam. 1889. 



TENNYSON 



553 



FAR— FAR— AWAY 

(FOR MUSIC) 

What siglit so lured him thro' the fields 

lie knew 
As vvliere earth's green stole into 

heaven's own hue, 

Far — far — away ? 

What sound was deai-est in his native 

dells ? 
TJie mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells 
Fa r — far — away . 

What vague world-whisper, mystic pain 

or joy. 
Thro' those three words would haunt 

him when a boy, 

Far — far — away ? 

* A whisper from liis dawn of life ? a 
breath 
From some fair dawn beyond the doors 
of death 

Far — far — away ? 

Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates of 

birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of 

earth, 

Far — far— away ? 

What charm in words, a charm no words 

could give ? 
O dying words, can Music make you live 
Far— far— away ? 1889. 

THE THROSTLE 

" Summer is coming, summer is coming. 

I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love 
again ! " 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 
" New, new, new, new ! " Is it then so 
new 

That you should carol so madly ? 

" Love again, song again, nest again, 
young again," 

Never a propliet to crazy ! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 

'* Here again, here, here, here, happy 
year ! " 



U warble uncliidden, unbidden ! 

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 

And all the winters are hidden. 

1889. 

THE OAK 

Live tliy Life, 

Young and old. 
Like yon oak. 
Bright in spring, 

Living gold ; 

Summer-rich 

Then ; and then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold again. 

All liis leaves 

Fallen at length, 
Look, he stands. 
Trunk and bough. 

Naked strength, 1889. 



CROSSING THE BARi 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the 
bar. 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
Too full for sound and foam. 

When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of fare- 
well, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar. 1889. 

' " Crossing the Bar was written in my father's 
eia:hty-first year, on a clay in October. . . . 

" I said, ' That is tlie crown of your life's worlt ;' 
he answered, 'It came in a moment.' He ex- 
plained the 'Pilot' as ' That Divine and Unseen 
Who is always guiding us.' 

" A few days before his death he said to me : 
' IMind you put Crossing the Bur at the end of all 
editions of mv poems.' " (Life of Tennyson, II., 
307.) 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poetical Works, edited by C. Porter and II. Clarke, G volumes, Crowell ; 
Poetical Works, 5 volumes, Dodd, Mead & Co. ; 6 volumes, Scribner\s ; 
Cambridge Edition, 1 volume, Houghton, JMifflin & Co. ; * Globe Edition, 

1 volume, The Macmillan Co. Letters, edited ])y F. G. Kenyon, 2 vo- 
lumes. The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, 

2 volumes. 

Biography 

* Kenton (F. G.), Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, edited with 
biographical additions. IIokne (R. H.), Life and Letters of Mrs. Brown- 
ing. Ingram (J. II.), Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Famous Women Se- 
ries). See also L'Estrange's Life of 31. R. Mitford, and The Friendshijis 
of M. R. Mitford ; The Letters of M. R. Mitford ; Macpherson's Memoirs 
of Anna Jameson ; and Forster's Life of Landor. 

Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

HoRNE (R. H.), A New Spirit of the Age, 1844. Ritchie (Anne Thack- 
eray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning. * Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary Life. Cole- 
RiD(iE (Sara), Memoirs and Letters, Vol. I, Chap. 12 (letter of 1844 to John 
Kenyon) ; Vol. II, Chap. 12 (letter of 1851 to Ellis Yarnall). Bayne 
(Peter), Essays in Biography and Criticism (1st Series) : Mrs. Barrett 
Browning. Roscoe (W. C), Poems and Essays, Vol. II. Ossoli (Mar- 
garet Fuller), Art, Literature and the Drama. ■ Poe (E. A.), Works, Vol. 
IV (1890). IIawtfiorm:, Italian Note-books. Hillard (G. S.), Six 
Months in Italy. * W. W. Sturv and his Friends, edited by Henry 
James. 

Later Criticism 

Benson (A. C), Essays : Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Chesterton 
(G. K.), Twelve Types. Darmesteter (Mary J.), Menage de Poetes ; in 
the Revue de Paris, Vol. 5, p. 295 and p. 788. *Gosse (E. W.), Critical 
Kit-Kats : The Sonnets from tlie Portuguese, etc. Milsand (J.), Littera- 
ture anglaise et philosophic. Montegut (Emile), Ecrivains modernes de 
TAngleterre, Vol. II. Schuyler (E.), Italian Influences. * Stedman 
(E. C), Victorian Poets. Texte (Joseph), Etudes de litterature euro- 
peene. Taylor (Bayard), At Home and Abroad. 

554 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE' 



I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 

sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 

for years, 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young ; 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw, in gradual vision through my 

tears. 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 

years, 
Those of my own life, who by turns had 

flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I 

was 'ware. 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did 

move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by 

the hair ; 
And a voice said in mastery, while I 

strove, — 
"Guess now who holds thee ? " — "Death," 

I said. But, there. 
The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, 

but Love." 



But only three in all God's universe 
Have heard this word thou hast said, — 

Himself, beside 
Thee speaking, and me listening ! and 

replied 
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and 

laid the curse 
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce 
ily sight from seeing thee, — tliat if I 

had died, 
The deathweiglits, placed there, would 

have signified 
Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is 

worse 
From God than from all others, O my 

friend ! 
Men could not part us with their worldl}" 

jars, 



Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests 

bend ; 
Our hands would touch for all the 

mountain-bars : 
And, heaven being rolled between us at 

the end. 
We should but vow the faster for the 

stars. 



Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart ! 
Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
Our ministering two angels look surprise 
On one another, as they strike athwart 
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink 

thee, art 
A guest for qvieens to social pageantries. 
With gages from a hundred brighter 

eyes 
Than tears even can make mine, to play 

thy part 
Of cliief musician. What hast thou to 

do 
With looking from the lattice-lights at 

me, 
A poor, tired, wandering singer, sing- 
ing through 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree ? 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, 

the dew. — 
And Death must dig the level where 

these agree. 



Thou hast thy calling to some palace- 
floor. 

Most gracious singer of high poems ! 
where 

The dancers will break footing, from the 
care 

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for 
more. 

* See the Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Brown- 
ing, I, 310-317. 

2 See the Letters of Robert Browning and Eliz- 
abeth Barrett Barrett, I, 74-75. (May 34, 1845.) 



555 



556 



BRITISH POETS 



And dost thou lift tliis house's latch too 

poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 

and bear 
To let thy music drop here unaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in, 
The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hush, call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation ! there's a voice within 
Tliat weeps ... as thou must sing . , . 

alone, aloof. 



I LIFT ni}' heavy heart up solemnly. 
As once Electra her sepulchral urn, 
And looking in thine eyes, I overturn 
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in 

me, 
And how the red wild sparkles dimly 

burn 
Through the aslien grayness. If thy 

foot in scorn 
Could tread them out to darkness utterly. 
It might be well perhaps. But if in- 
stead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to 

blow 
The gray dust up, . , . those laurels on 

thine head, 
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so. 
That none of all the fires shall scorch 

and shred 
The hair beneath. Stand farther off 

then ! go. 

VI 1 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 
stand 

Henceforward in tliy shadow. Never- 
more 

Alone upon the threshold of my door 

Of individual life, I shall command 

The uses of my soul, nor lift my liand 

Serenely in the sunshine as before. 

Without the sense of that which I for- 
bore — 

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest 
land 

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy lieart 
in mine 

With pulses that beat double. What I 
do 



and 144, 



the Letters of R. B. and E. B. B., I, 74-75, 



And what I dream include thee, as the 

wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when 

I sue 
God for myself. He hears that name of 

thine. 
And sees within my eyes the tears of 

two. 

VII 

The face of all the world is changed, I 

think, 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they 

stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I, who thought 

to sink. 
Was caught up into love, and taught 

tlie whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of 

dole 
God gave for bajjtism, I am fain to drink. 
And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with 

tliee anear. 
The names of country, heaven, are 

clianged away 
For where tliou art or shalt be, there or 

here ; 
And this . . . this lute and soiag . . . 

loved yesterday, 
(The singing angels know) are only dear 
Because thy name moves right in what 

they say. 

VIII 1 

What can I give thee back, O liberal 
And princely giver, who hast brought 

the gold 
And purple of thine heart, unstained, 

untold. 
And laid them on the outside of tlie 

wall 
For such as I to take or leave withal, 
III unexpected largesse ? am I cold, 
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold 
High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 
Not so ; not cold, — -but verj' poor instead. 
Ask God who knows. For frequent 

tears have run 
The colors from my life, and left so dead 
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 
To give the same as pillow to thy head. 
Go farther ! let it serve to trample on. 

* With this Sonnet and the next, compare the 
Letters, I, 183-5. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



557 



Can it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let tliee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 

years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which 

fail to live 
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears, 
Tliat this can scarce be right ! We are 

not peers, 
So to be lovers ; and I own, and grieve, 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, 

must 
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, 

alas ! 
I will not soil thy purple witli my dust, 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
glass, 
Nor give thee any love — which were 

unjust. 
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass. 



Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed 
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is 

bright, 
Let temple burn, or flax ; an equal liglit 
Leaps in tlie flame from cedar-plank or 

weed : 
And love is fire. And when I say at need 
/ love thee . . . mark I ... I love thee — in 

thy sight 
I stand transfigured, glorified aright, 
AVitli conscience of the new rays that 

proceed 
Out of my face toward thine. There's 

nothing low 
In love, wJien love the lowest : meanest 

creatures 
Who love God, God accepts wliile loving 

so. 
And what I feel, across the inferior 

features 
Of what I am, doth flasli itself, and show 
How that great work of Love enhances 

Nature's. 



And therefore if to love can be desert, 
I am not all unworthj'. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees 

that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart, — 
This weary minstrel-life that once was 

girt 
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale 



A melancholy music, — why advert 
To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
I am not of tliy worth nor for thj' place ! 
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating 

grace. 
To live on still in love, and yet in vain, — 
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy 

face. 



Indeed this veiy love which is my boast, 
And which, when rising up from breast 

to brow, 
Dotli cro^n me with a ruby large enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner 

cost, — 
Tbis love even, all my worth, to theutter- 

most, 
I should not love withal, unless that thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me 

how. 
When first thine earnest ej'es with mine 

were crossed. 
And love called love. And thus, I can- 
not speak 
Of love even, as a good thing of ray own : 
Thy soul hatli snatched uj^mine all faint 

and weak. 
And placed it by thee on a golden 

throne, — 
And tliat I love (O soul, we must be 

meek !) 
Is by thee only, whom I love alone. 



And wilt thou have me fashion into 

speech 
The love I bear thee, finding words 

enough, 
And hold the torch out, while the winds 

are rougli, 
Between our faces, to cast light on 

each ? — 
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
From myself — me — that I should bring 

thee proof 
In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thy be- 
lief.— 
Seeing that I stand unwon, however 

wooed, 
And rend the garment of my life, in 

brief. 
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, 
Lest one touch of this heart convey its 

grief. _ 



558 



BRITISH POETS 



If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
" I love her for her smile — her look — her 

way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of 

thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes 

brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a 

day " — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, 

may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and 

love, so wi'ouglit. 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me 

for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 

diT> — 

A creature might forget to weep, who 
bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 
thereby ! 

But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
nrore 

Tliou maystlove on, through love's eter- 
nity. 

XV 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 

wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of 

thine ; 
For we two look two ways, and can- 
not shine 
With the same sunlight on our brow 

and hair. 
On me thou lookest with no doubting 

care. 
As on a bee shut in a crystalline ; 
Since sorrow liath shut me safe in love's 

divine, 
And to spread wing and fly in the outer 

air 
Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
To fail so. But I look on thee — on thee — 
Beliolding, besides love, the end of love, 
Hearing oblivion beyond memory ; 
As one who sits and gazes from above, 
Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 

XVI '^ 

And yet, because thou overcomest so, 
Because thou art more noble and like a 
king, 

1 Compare the Letters, I, 356, 274-5, 506, 508. 
■■•Compare the Letters, I, 545. 



Thou canst prevail against my fears and 

fling 
Tliy purple round me, till my heart 

shall grow 
Too close against thine heart henceforth 

to know 
How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
quering 
Ma}' prove as lordly and complete a 

thing 
In lifting upward, as in crushing low ! 
And as a vanquished soldier yields his 

sword 
To one who lifts him from tlie bloody 

earth. 
Even so, Beloved, I at last record. 
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me 

forth, 
I rise above abasement at the word. 
Make thy love larger to enlarge my 

worth. 



My poet, thou canst touch on all the 

notes 
God set between His After and Before, 
And strike up and strike off the general 

roar 
Of the rushing worlds a melody that 

floats 
In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Of medicated music, answering for 
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst 

pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will 

devotes 
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on 

thine. 
How, Dearest, wilt tliou have me for 

most use ? 
A hope, to sing by gladl}'^ ? or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to inter- 
fuse ? 
A shade, in which to sing — of palm or 

pine ? 
A grave, on which to rest from singing ? 

Choose. 

XVIII 

I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
To a man. Dearest, except this to thee. 
Which now upon mv fingers thought- 
fully, 
I ring out to the full brown length and 

say 
" Take it." My day of j'outh went yes- 
terday : 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



559 



Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 

As girls do, any more ; it only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark 
of tears, 

Taught drooping from the liead that 
hangs aside 

Througli sorrow's trick. I thought the 
funeral-shears 

Would take this first, but love is justi- 
fied,— 

Take it thou, finding pure, from all those 
years. 

The kiss my mother left here when she 
died. 



The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise ; 

I barter curl for curl upon tluit mart, 

And from my poet's forehead to my 
heart 

Receive this lock which outweighs ar- 
gosies, — 

As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 

The dim pui-pureal tresses gloomed 
athwart 

The nine white Muse-brows. For this 
counterpart, 

The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I sur- 
mise. 

Still lingers on tliy curl, it is so black ! 

Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 
breath, 

I tie tiiesliadows safe from gliding back. 

And laj^ the gift where nothing hin- 
dereth ; 

Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to 
lack 

No natural heat till mine grows cold in 
death. 

XX 1 

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
What time I sat alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence 

sink 
No moment at thy voice, but, link bv 

link. 
Went counting all my chains as if that 

so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus 

I drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder ! Wonder- 
ful. 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech, — nor ever 
cull 

1 Compare the Letters, I, 147. 



Some pi'escience of thee with the blos- 
soms white 

Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as 
dull, 

Who cannot guess God's presence out of 
sight. 

XXI 1 

Say over again, and yet once over again. 
That tliou dost love me. Though the 

word repeated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou 

dost treat it. 
Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
strain 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 

completed. 
Beloved, I. amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's 

pain 
Cry, " Speak once more — thou lovest ! " 

Who can fear 
Too many stars, thougli each in heaven 

shall roll, 
Too many flowers, though each shall 

crown the year? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me 

—toll 
The silver iterance! — onlj^ minding. 

Dear, 
To love me also in silence with thy soul. 



When our two souls stand up erect and 

strong. 
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and 

nigher. 
Until tlie lengthening wings break into 

fire 
At either curved point, — what bitter 

wrong 
Can tlie earth do to us, that we should 

not long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mount- 
ing liigher, 
The angels would press on us and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth, Beloved, — where the 

unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
X place to stand and love in for a day. 
With darkness and the death-hour round- 
ing it. 

1 Compare the Letters, I, 336. 



5Co 



BRITISH POETS 



Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing 

mine ? 
And would the sun for thee more coldly 

shine 
Because of grave-damps falling round 

my head ? * 

I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am 

thine — 
But . . . so much to thee? Can I ponr 

thy wine 
While my hands tremble ? Then ni}' 

soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 

range. 
Then, love me, Love ! look on me — 

breathe on me ! 
As brighter ladies do not count it 

strange, 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and ex- 
change 
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth 

with thee ! 



Let the world's sharpness, like a clasp- 
ing knife, 

Shut in upon itself and do no harm 

In this close hand of Love, now soft and 
warm. 

And let us hear no sound of human 
strife 

After the click of the shutting. Life 
to life — 

I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm. 

And feel as safe as guarded by a charm 

Against the stab of worldlings, who if 
rife 

Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 

The lilies of our lives may reassure 

Their blossoms from their roots, ac- 
cessible 

Alone to heavenly dews that drop not 
fewer. 

Growing straight, out of man's reach, 
on the hill. [us poor. 

God only, who made us rich, can make 

XXV 

A HEAVY heart, Beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw tiiy face. 
And sorrow after sorrow took the placse 
Of all those natural jo3's as lightly worn 

1 Compare the Letters, I, 337, 345, 350. 



As the stringed ijearls, each lifted in its 
turn 

By a beating heart at dance-time. 
Hopes apace 

Were changed to long despairs, till God's 
own grace 

Could scarcely lift above the world for- 
lorn 

My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid 
me bring 

And let it drop adown thy calmly great 

Deep being ! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 

Wliich its own natvire doth precipitate. 

While tliine doth close above it, media- 
ting 

Betwixt the stars and the unaccom- 
plished fate. 



I LIVED with visions for my company 

Instead of men and women, years ago. 

And found them gentle mates, nor 
tliought to know 

A sweeter music than they played to 
me. 

But soon their trailing purple was not 
free 

Of this world's dust, their lutes did 
silent grow, 

And I myself grew faint and blind be- 
low 

Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst 
come — to be. 

Beloved, what they seemed. Their 
shining fronts, 

Their songs, their splendors (better, yet 
the same, 

As river-water hallowed into fonts). 

Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
came 

My soul with satisfaction of all wants : 

Because God's gifts put man's best 
dreams to shame. 

XXVII 1 

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me 

From this drear flat of earth where I 
was thrown, 

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, 
blown 

A life-breath, till the forehead hope- 
fully 

Shines out again, as all the angels see. 

Before thy saving kiss ! My own, mj' 
own. 

Who earnest to me when the world was 
gone, 

' Compare the Letters, I, 595. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



561 



And I who looked for onlj' God, found 
thee ! 

I find thee. ; I am safe, and strong, and 
glad . 

As one who stands in dewless aspliodel 

Looks backward on the tedious time he 
had 

In the upper life, — so I, with bosom- 
swell, 

Make witness, here, between the good 
and bad. 

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves 
as well. 

XXVIII 1 

My letters ! all dead paper, mute and 

wliite ! 
And 3'et they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous hands which 

loose the string 
.vnd let them drop down on my knee 

'o-night. 
This said, — he wished to have me in his 

sight 
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in 

. spring 
To come and toucl; my hand ... a 

simple thing. 
Yet I wept for it !— this, . . the paper's 

i:-ht . . . 

Siiid, Dear, [love thee: f^m! i sank and 

quailed 
As if God's future tluuidered on my 

past. 
This said, I am tlmu ,i,nd so its ink has 

paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too 

fast. 
And this . . . O Love, thy words have 

ill availed 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 



I THINK of thee ! — my thoughts do twine 
and bud 

About tliee, as wild vines, about a tree. 

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
nought to see 

Except the straggling green which hides 
the wood. 

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 

I will not have my thoughts instead of 
thee 

Who art dearer, better ! Rather, in- 
stantly 

Renew thy presence ; as a strong tree 
should, 

* Compare the Letters, 1, 6, 70, 365. 
36 



Rustle tli}^ boughs and set thj^ trunk all 

bare. 
And let these bands of greenery which 

insphere thee 
Drop heavily down, — burst, shattered, 

everywhere ! 
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear 

thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new 

air, 
I do not think of thee — I am too near 

thee. 



I SEE thine image tlu'ough my tears to- 
night, . 
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. 

How 
Refer the cause? — Beloved, is it thou 
Or I, who makes me sad ? Tiie acolyte 
Amid the ciianted joy and thankful rite 
May so fall fiat, with pale insensate 

brow, 
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and 

vow. 
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art 

out of sight, 
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's 

Amen. 
Beloved, dost thou love ? or did I see all 
Tlie glory as I dreamed, and fainted 

when 
Too vehement light dilated my ideal, 
For my soul's eyes? Will that light 

come again. 
As now these teai's come — falling hot 
and real? 



Thou comest ! all is said without a word. 
I sit beneath thy looks as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 

through 
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I 

erred 
In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion— that we 

two 
Should for a moment stand unminis- 

tered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near 

and close. 
Thou dovelike help ! and, when my 

fears would rise, 
With thy broad heart serenely inter- 
pose : 
Brood down vfith thy divine sufficiencies 



562 



BRITISH POETS 



These thoughts which tiemble when 

bereft of those, 
Like callow birds left desert to the 

skies. 

XXXII 

The first time that the sun rose on thine 

oath 
To love me, I looked forward to the 

moon 
To slacken all those bonds which seemed 

too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting 

trotli. 
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 

. quickly loafclie ; 
And, looking on myself, I seemed not 

one 
For such man's love ; — moi'e like an out- 

of-tune 
Worn viol, a good singer would be 

wroth 
To spoil his song with, and which, 

snatcJied in liaste, 
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding 

note. 
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains 

may float 
'Neath master-hands, from instruments 

defaced. — 
And gi'eat souls, at one stroke, may do 

and doat. 

XXXIII 

Yes, call me by my pet-name ! let me 

hear 
The name I vised to run at, when a child. 
From innocent play, and leave the cow- 
slips piled. 
To glance up in some face that proved 

me dear 
With the look of its eyes. I miss the 

clear 
Fond voices which, being drawn and 

reconciled 
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled. 
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, 
While I call God— call God !— So let thy 

mouth 
Be heir to those who are now exanimate. 
Gather the north flowers to complete the 

south, 
And catcli the early love up in the late. 
Yes, call me by that name, — and I, in 

truth. 
With the same heart, will answer and 

not wait. 



With the same heart, I said, I'll answer 

thee 
As those, when thou shalt call me by my 

name — 
Lo, the vain promise ! is the same, the 

same, 
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategj' ? 
When called before, I told how hastily 
I dropped my flowers or brake off from a 

game. 
To run and answer with the smile that 

came 
At play last moment, and went on with 

me 
Through my obedience. When I answer 

now, 
I drop a grave thought, break from soli- 
tude ; 
Yet still my heart goes to thee — ponder 

how — 
Not as to a single good, but all my good ! ^ 
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow 
That no cliild's foot could run fast as 

this blood. 



If I leave all for thee, wilt thou ex- 
change 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing and the common 

kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it 

strange. 
When I look up, to drop on anew range 
Of walls and floors, another home than 

this ? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 

which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 

change ? 
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has 

tried. 
To conquer grief, tries more, as all • 

things prove ; 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 
Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine 

heart wide, 
And fold within the wet wdngs of thy 

dove. 

XXXVI 

When we met first and loved, I did not 

build 
Upon the event with marble. Could it 

mean 

' Compare the Letters, I, 361. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



563 



To last, a love set pendulous between 
Sorrow and sorrow ? Nay, I rather 

thrilled, 
Distrusting every light that seemed to 

gild 
The onward path, and feared to overlean 
A finger even. And, though I have 

grovvn serene 
And strong since then, I thiidi that (!od 

has willed 
A still renewable fear . . , O love, O 

trotli . . . 
Lest these enclasped hands should never 

hold, 
Tliis mutual kiss drop down between us 

botli 
As an unowned thing, once the lips being 

cold. 
And Love, be false ! if he, to keep one 

oath. 
Must lose one joy, by his life's star fore- 
told. 

XXXVII 

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should 

make. 
Of all that strong divineness which I 

know 
For thine and tliee. an image only so 
Formed of tlie sand, and fit to shift and 

break. 
It is that distant years which did not 

take 
Tliy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. 
Have forced my swimming brain to un- 
dergo 
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to 

forsake 
Thy purity of likeness and distort 
Thy worthiest love to a worthless coun- 
terfeit : 
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port. 
His guardian sea-god to commemorate, 
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a- 

snort 
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. 



First time he kissed me, he but only 

kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I 

write ; 
And ever since, it grew more clean and 

white. 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 

"Oh, list." 
When the angels speak. A ring of 

amethyst 



I could not wear here, plainer to my 
sight. 

Than that first kiss. The second passed 
in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and 
half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, whicli 
love's own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

Tlie third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- 
deed, 

I have been proud and said, " My love, 
my own.'' 



Because thou hast the power and own'st 

the grace 
To look through and behind this mask 

of me 
( Against which years have beat thus 

blanchingly 
With their rains), and behold my soul's 

true face. 
The dim and weary witness of life's 

race,— 
Because thou hast the faith and love to 

see, 
Througli that same soul's distracting 

lethargy. 
The patient angel waiting for a place. 
In the new Heavens, — because nor sin 

nor woe. 
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neigh- 
borhood. 
Nor all which others viewing, turn to 

go. 
Nor all wliich makes me tiredof all, self- 
viewed, — 
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach 

me so 
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, 

good ! 



Oh, yes ! they love through all this world 

of ours ! 
I will not gainsay love, called love 

forsootli. 
I have heard love talked in my early 

youth, 
And since, not so long back but that tlie 

flowers ^ 

Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans 

and Giaours 
Tlirow kerchiefs at a smile, and have no 

ruth 



5^4 



BRITISH POETS 



For any weeping. Polypheme's wliite 

tooth 
Slips on tlie nut if, after frequent 

sliowers, 
Tlie shell is over-smooth, — and not so 

much 
Will turn the thing called love, aside to 

hate, 
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 

such 
A lover, my Beloved ! thou canst wait 
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 

souls to touch, 
And think it soon when others cry " Too 

late." 



I THANK all who have loved me in their 

hearts. 
With thanks and love from mine. Deej) 

thanks to all 
AVho paused a little near the prison- wall 
To hear my music in its louder parts 
Ere they went onward, each one to the 

mart's 
Or temple's occupation, beyond call. 
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and 

fall 
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 
Own instrument didst drop down at thy 

foot 
To. hearken what I said between my 

tears, . . . 
Instruct me how to thank thee ! Oh, to 

shoot 
My soul's full meaning into future years, 
That thei/ should lend it utterance, and 

salute 
Love that endures, from Life that dis- 
appears ! 

XLII 

" 3l7j future ivill not copy fair viij 

past " — 1 
I wrote that once ; and thinking at my 

side 
My ministering life-angel justified 
Tlie word by his appealing look upcast 
To the white throne of God, I turned at 

last, 
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied 
To angels in thy soul ! Then I, long 

tried 
By natural ills, received the comfort fast, 
* While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's 

staff 

1 A sonnet of Mrs. Browning's, of 1844, begins 
with tliis line. See also the Letters, I, J381. 



Gave out green leaves with morning 

dews impearled. 
I seek no copy now of life's first half : 
Leave here the pages with long musing 

curled. 
And write me new my future's epigraph, 
New angel mine, unhoped for in the 

world ! 

XLIII 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the 

ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
1 love thee to tlie level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for 

Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from 

Praise. 
I love tliee with the passion pvit to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 

faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — I love thee with 

the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God 

choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



Beloved, thou hast brought me many 
flowers 

Plucked in the garden, all the summer 
through 

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 

In tliis close room, nor missed the sun 
and showers. 

So, in tiie like name of that love of ours, 

Take back these thoughts which here un- 
folded too. 

And which on warm and cold days I 
withdi'ew 

From my heart's ground. Indeed, those 
beds and bowers 

Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 

And wait thy weeding ; yet hero's eglan- 
tine, 

Here's ivy ! — take them, as. I used to do 

Thy flowers, and keep them where they 
sliall not pine. 

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors 
true, 

And tell thy soul their roots are left in 
mine. [1847.] 1850. 



^ V^^^% .c/ V "^ ■ ^ <r] ^ ^-^ i 



^ - v^ , ^ r .. 1 



ROBERT BROWNING 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poetical Works, 9 volumes, The Macmillau Co. Riverside Edition, 6 
volumes, Houghton & jMifflin. Globe Edition, 2 volumes, edited by Aug- 
ustine Birrell, The Macmillan Co. Cambridge Edition, 1 volume, 
Houghton & Miffliu. Selections, 2 volumes ; Smith, Elder & Co., 1872 
(Browning's own selection). Selections, 2 volumes, edited by C. Porter 
and II. Clarke, Crowell (The same, with additional poems subsequent to 
1872). 

Biography 

Orr (Alexandra L.), Life and Letters of Robert Browning, 1891. 
* Smaup (Wm.), Life of Brownhig (Great Writers Series), 1890. Caky 
(E. L.), Browning as Poet and Man. Waugu (A. R.), Robert Browning 
(Tlie Westminster Biographies), 1900. Douglas (James), Biography of 
Robert Browning (Bookman Series). * Chestertox (G. K.), Browning 
(English Men of Letters), 1903. * Dowde>^ (E.), Browning (The Temple 
Biographies), 1904. See also Forster\s Life of Landor, llallam Tennyson's 
Life of Tennyson, The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett 
Barrett, and The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Remixiscen'ces axd Early Criticism 

* GossE (E. W.), Robert Browning; Personalia, 1890. Ritchie (Anne 
Thackeray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, Robert and Elizabeth Brown- 
ing, 1892."' Duffy (C. G.), Conversations Avith Carlyle. * W. W. Story 
and his Friends. Farrar (F. W.), Men I have Known. Bronson (K.), 
The Century, Vol. XXXYII, p. 920 : Browning in Asolo, Bronson (K), 
The Century, Vol. XLI, p. 572 : Browning in Venice. Lambert (L. V.), 
Chatauquan, Vol. XXXV, p. 590 : The Brownings in Florence. IIorne 
(R. II.), A New Spirit of the Age, 1844. Powell (T.), The Living Authors 
of England, 1849. Ossolt (M. F.), Art, Literature and the Drama. 
Hawtmorxe, Italian Note-F.ooks. Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. 
II: Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning; or Pure, Ornate and Gro- 
tesque Art in English Poetry (Oi'iginally in National Review, Nov- 
ember, 1804). Nettleship (J. T.), Essays on Robert Browning's Poetiy, 
18(38. Morris (William), Review of Men and Women, 1856. 

565 



566 BRITISH POETS 

Introductions to Browning 

Alexander (W. IT.), An Introduction to the Poetry of Robert Brown- 
ing. * Berdoe (E.), The Browning Cj^clopaedia, a Guide to the Study of 
the Works of Robert Browning. Chicago Browning Society, Browning's 
Poetry, Outline Studies. Cooke (Bancroft), An introduction to Robert 
Browning. Cooke (G. W.), A Guide-Book to the Poetic and Dramatic 
Works of Robert Browning. Corson (Hiram), An Introduction to the 
Study of Robert Browning's Poetr3^ Defries (E. P.), Browning Primer. 
FoTHERiNGHAM (J.), Studics of tlic Miud and Art of Browning. Holland 
(F. M.), Stories from Robert Browning. Kingsland (W. G.), Robert 
Browning, Chief Poet of the Age. Molineux (M. A.), A Phrase-Book 
from tlie Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning. Morison^ 
(Jeanie), Sordello, an outline Analysis of Mr. Browning's Poem. Orr 
(Alexandra L.), A Handl)ook to the Works of Robert Browning. Symons 
(A.), An Introduction to the Study of Browning. Wilson (F. M.), A 
Primer on Browning. 

(The above books are for the most part more elementary than could be 
needed to-day ])y any person of ordinary intelligence. Some of them 
however, especially that of J^erdoe, and in a less degree tliose of Corson, 
G. W. Cooke, and Mrs. Orr, contain much valuable information not else- 
where so easily obtainable.) 

Later Criticism 

* Bkatty (Arthur), Browning's Verse-Form, its Organic Character. 
* Berdoe (E.) Browning's Message to his Time ; his Religion, Philosophy 
and Science. Birrell ( \ugustine), Essays and Addresses. * Birrell 
(Augustine), Obiter Dicta, Vol. I : On the Alleged Obscurity of Mr. 
Browning's Poetry. * Browning Society (of London) : Browning 
Studies ; Selected Papers of Members of the Browning Society, Edited 
by Edward Berdoe. * Boston Brownincj Society : Selected Papers. 
Brooke (S. A.), The Poetry of Browning. Burton (R.), Literary Likings : 
Renaissance in Browning's Poetry. Carpexter (W. Boyd), The Reli- 
gious Spirit in the Poets. * Chapman (J. J.), Emerson and Other Essays. 
Church (R. W.), Dante and Otlier Essays : Sordello. Cooke (G. W.), 
Poets and Problems. Curtis (G. W.), From the Easy Chair ; Robert 
Browning in Florence. Darimesteter (Mary J.), Revue de Paris, October, 
1898: Menage de Poetes. *Dowden (E.), Studies in Literature: Mr. 
Tennyson and Mr. Browning ; Transcendental Movement in Literature. 
DowDEN (E.), Transcripts and Studies : Mr. Browning's Sordello. Everett 
(C. C), Essays Theological and Literary. Fawcett (C), Agnosticism and 
Other Essays : The BroAvning Craze. FoR>rAN (H. F>.), Our Living Poets. 
HuTTON (R. H.), Literary Essays. James (Henry), Essays in London and 
Elsewhere. Jenkin (Fleming), Papers Literary, Scientific, etc. : The 
Agamemnon and Trachiniae. * Lawton (W. C), The Classical Element 
in BroAvning's Poetry. Mabie (H. W.), Essays in Literary Interpreta- 



\ 



ROBERT BROWNING 567 

tion. MiLSAXD (Joseph), Litterature anglaise et pliilosophie. Morley 
(John), Studies in Literature : The Ring and the Book. Oliphaxt (Mar- 
garet), Tlie Victorian Age of English Literature, Vol. I. Patkr (Walter), 
Essays from the Guardian. Saintsbuky (George), Corrected Impressions. 

* Saxtayaxa (George), Interpretations of Poetry and Religion : The 
Poetry of Barbarism — Walt Whitman, Robert Browning. * Schelling (F. 
E.), Two Essays on Robert Browning. * Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. III. * Swixburxe, Intro- 
duction to the Works of George Chapman, pp. xiv-xix (a splendid pas- 
sage on the alleged obscurity of Browning). Thomson (James), Biographi- 
cal and C-ritical Studies : Notes on the (Tcnius of Robert Browning ; The 
Ring and the Book ; Browning's Pacchiarotto. Triggs (O. L.), Browning 
and Whitman, A Study in Democracy. Vincent (L. H.), A Few Words 
on Robert Browning. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature : On 
Browning's Death. 

Armstrong (R. A.), Faith and Doubt. Austin (A.), The Poetry of the 
Period. Buchanan (R.), Master Spirits. Cheney (V.), The Golden 
Guess. Courtney (W. L.), Studies New and Old. Dawson (W. J.), 
Makers of IModern English ; Religion of Brownhig. Devey (J.), Com- 
parative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Forster (J.), Four Great 
Teachers : John Ruskin, Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and 
Robert Browning. Friswell (J. II.), Modern Men of Letters. Galton 
(A.), LTrbana Scripta. Gould (E. P.), The Brownings and America. 
Kernahan (Coulson), Wise Men and a Fool : One Aspect of Browning. 
MacDonald (George), Imagination and Other Essays : Browning's 
Christmas Eve. McCormick (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Liter- 
ature : The Poetry of Robert Browning. Noel (R. B. W.), Essays on 
Poetry and Poets. Sarrazin (G.), La Renaissance de la Poesie anglaise. 
Sci'DUER (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry. Sharp 
(Amy), Victorian Poets. Swanwkk (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their 
Age. Walker (LI.), The Great Victorian Poets. 

Tributes in Verse 

* Landor, Robert Browning. * Gilper (R. W.), Five Books of Song : 
Browning's Death. Field (M.), The Burial of Robert Browning. 

* Carman (Bliss), Songs from Vagabondia : The Two Bobbies. * Carman 
(Bliss), More Songs from Vagaljondia : In a Copy of Browning. 

Bibliography 

FuRNivALL (F. J.), A Bibliography of Robert Browning from 1833 to 
1881. Anderson (J. P.), Bibliography of Browning, Appendix to Sharp's 
Life of Browning. Learned (H. B.), A Hand List for the Student of 
Robert Browning. Nkoll (W. M.), and Wise (T.), Literary Anecdotes 
of the Nineteenth Century : Materials for a Bibliography of Robert 
Browning. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes 

Of labdaiuun, and aloe-balls, 

Smeared vvitli dull nard an Indian wipes 
From out her hair : such balsam falls 
Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 

From tree-tops where tired winds are 
fain, 

Spent witli the vast and howling main. 

To treasure half their island-gain. 

And strew faint sweetness from some 
old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
Which breaks to dust when once un- 
rolled ; 

Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
From closet long to quiet vowed, 
With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
Mouldering her lute and books among, 
As when a queen, long dead, was young. 



Over the sea our galleys went, 
With cleaving prows in order brave 
To a speeding wind and a bounding 
wave, 

A gallant armament : 
Each bark built out of a forest-tree 

Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
And nailed all over tlie gaping sides, 
Within and without, with black bull- 
hides. 
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
To bear tlie playful billows' game : 
So, eacl\ good sliip was rude to see. 
Rude and bare to tlie outward view, 

But each upbore a stately tent 
Where cedar jiales in scented row 
Kept out tlie flakes of the dancing brine. 
And an awning drooped the mast below, 
In fold on fold of the purple fine. 



That neither noontide nor starshine 
Nor moonlight cold which makethmad. 

Might pierce the regal tenement. 
Wiien the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
We set the sail and plied the oar ; 
But when the night-wind blew like 

breath. 
For joy of one day's voyage more, 
AVe sang together on the wide sea. 
Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ; 
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
Each helm made sure by tlie twiliglit 

star. 
And in a sleep as calm as death. 
We, the voyagers from afar. 

Lay stretched along, each weary crew 
In a circle round its wondrous tent 
Whence gleamed soft light and curled 

rich scent, 
And with light and perfume, music 

too : 
So the stars wheeled round, and the 

darkness past. 
And at morn we started beside the mast. 
And still each ship was sailing fast. 

Now, one morn, land appeared — a speck 
Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky : 
" Avoid it," cried our pilot, " check 

The shout, restrain tlie eager eye ! " 
But the heaving sea was black behind 
For many a night and many a day. 
And land, though but a rock, drew 

nigh ; 
So, we broke the cedar iiales away. 
Let the purple awning flap in the wind. 

And a statue bright was on every 
deck ! 
We shouted, every man of us. 
And steered right into the harbor thus. 
With pomp and pa3an glorious. 

A hundred shapes of lucid stone ! 
All day we built its slirine for each, 



568 



ROBERT BROWNING 



569 



A shrine of rock for every one, 
Nor paused till in the westering sun 

We sat together on the beach 
To sing because our task was done. 
When lo ! what shouts and merry songs ! 
What laughter all tlie distance stirs ! 
A loaded raft with happy throngs 
Of gentle islanders ! 

" Our isles are just at hand," they 
cried, 

" Like cloudlets faint in even sleep- 
ing. 
Our temple-gates are opened wide, 

Our olive-groves thick shade are keep- 
ing 
For tliese majestic forms" — they cried. 
Oh, then we awoke with sudden start 
From our deep dream, and knew, too 

late, 
How bare the rock, how desolate, 
Which had received our precious 
freight 

Yet we called out — " Depart ! 
Our gifts, once given, must Jiere abide. 

Our work is done ; we have no lieart 
To mar our work," — we cried. 1835. 



PORPHYRIA'S LOVER 

The rain set early in to-night, 

The sullen wind was soon awake, 
It tore the elm-tops down for spite. 

And did its worst to vex the lake : 
I listened with heart fit to break. 
Wlien glided in Porpliyria ; straight 

Slie shut the cold out and the storm. 
And kneeled and made the cheerless 
grate 

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 
Which done, she rose, and from her 

form 
Withdrew the dripping cloak and 
shawl. 

And laid iier soiled gloves by, untied 
Her hat and let the damp hair fall. 



1 This is the earliest of Browning's g:reat series 
of (Iraiiiatio poems in lyi'ic form. It was first 
IM-iiiteil iu tlie Mdutlily Reiiository, 183G, with 
Johiinness Aijrirold hi. Meditation ; was then 
included in the Dramatic Lyrics (1843); and is 
now classed among the Dramatic Romances. 

Most of Browning's poems are simply dramatic 
monologues, without stage directions, often 
without even the name of the speaker. Tlie 
reailer must remember that it is not Browning 
who is speaking or tellitig the story : and must 
first notice tvho is ipnikliifi, and under irliaf cir- 
cnmstancfis. Once tliis is done, most of the al- 
leged "obscurity" of Browning will be found to 
have disappeared forever. 



And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice re- 
plied. 
She put my arm about her waist, 

And made her smooth white shoulder 
bare 
And all her yellow hair displaced. 
And, stooping, made my cheek lie 
there. 
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 
Murmuring how she loved me — she 
Too weak, for all her heart's en- 
deavor. 
To set its struggling passion free 

From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
And give herself to me forever. 
But passion sometimes would prevail, 
Nor could to-night's gay feast re- 
strain 
A sudden thought of one so pale 

For love of her, and all in vain : 
So, slie was come through wind and 

rain. 
Be sure I looked \ip at her eyes 

Hapiiy and jnoud ; at last I knew 
Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise 
Made my heart swell, and still it 
grew 
While I debated what to do. 
That moment she was mine, mine, 
fair. 
Perfectly pure and good : I found 
A tiling to do, and all her hair 

In one long yellow string I wound 
Three times her little throat around. 
And strangled her. No pain felt she ; 

I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
As a shut bud that holds a bee, 
I warily oped her lids ; again 
Ijaughed the blue e3^es without a stain. 
And I untightened next the tress 
About her neck ; her cheek once 
more . 
Blushed bright beneath my burning 
kiss : 
I propped her head up as before, 
Only, this time my shoulder bore 
Her head, which droops ui)()n it still : 

The smiling ros.y little Uead, 
So glad it has its utmost will. 

That all it scorned at once is fled. 
And I, its love, am gained instead ! 
Porphyria's love : she guessed not how 

Her darling one wish would be heard. 
And thus we sit together now. 

And all night long we have not 
stirred. 
And yet God has not said a word ! 

1836. 



57° 



BRITISH POETS 

PIPPA PASSES 
A DRAMA 



PERSONS 

PiPPA 

Ottima 

Sebald 

Foreign Students 

Gottlieb 

Schramm 

INTRODUCTION 

New Year's Day at Asolo in the Tre- 

VISAN 

A large mecni airy chamber. A yirl, Pippa, from 
the silk-mills, springing out of bed. 

Day! 

Faster and more fast, 

O'er night's brim, day boils at last : 

Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's 

brim 
AVhere spurting and suppressed it lay, 
For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; 
But forth one wavelet, then another, 

curled, 
Till the whole sunrise, not to be sup- 
pressed. 
Rose, reddened , and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, tlien 
overflowed the world. 

Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, 
A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure, 
The least of thy gazes or glances, 
( Be thej'^ grants thou art bound to or gifts 

above measure) 
One of thy choices or one of thy chances, 
(Be tliey tasks God imposed thee or 

freaks at thy pleasure) 
— My Day, if I squander such labor or 

leisure. 
Tlien shame fall on Asolo, mischief on 

me ! 

Tliy long blue solemn hours serenely 
flowing, 

Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help 
and good — 

Thy fitful sunsiiine-minutes, coming, 
going. 

As if earth turned from work in game- 
some mood — 

All shall be mine ! But thou must treat 
me not 



Jules 

Phene 

Austrian Police 

Bluphocks 

LuiGl and his mother 

Poor Girls 

MONSIGNOR and his attendants 

As prosperous ones are treated, those 

who live 
At hand here, and enjoy tlie higher lot. 
In readiness to take wiiattliou wilt give, 
And free to let alone what thou re- 

f usest ; 
For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest 
Me, who am only Pippa, — old-year's sor- 
row. 
Cast off last night, will come again to- 
morrow : 
Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall 

borrow 
Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's 

sorrow. 
All otlier men and women that tliis 

earth 
Belongs to, who all days alike possess. 
Make general plenty cure particular 

dearth. 
Get more joy one way, if another, less : 
Thou art my single daj', God lends to 

leaven 
What were all earth else, witli a feel of 

heaven, — 
Sole light that helps me tlirough the 

year, tliy sun's ! 
Try now ! Take Asolo's Four Happiest 

Ones — 
And let thy morning rain on tliat superb 
Great liaughty Ottima ; can rain disturb 
Her Sebald's homage? All the while 

thy rain 
Beats fiercest on her shrub-house win- 
dow pane 
He will but press the closer, breathe 

more warm 
Against her cheek ; how should siie 

mind the storm ? 
And, morning past, if mid-day shed a 

gloom 
O'er Jules and Phene, — what care bride 

and groom 
SaA^e for their dpar selves? 'T is their 

marriage day ; * 
And wliile they leave church and go 

home their way, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



571 



Hand clasping hand, within each breast 

would be 
Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of 

thee. 
Tlien. for anotlier trial, obscure thy eve 
With mist, — will Luigi and his mother 

grieve — 
The lady and her child, unmatched, for- 
sooth. 
She in her age, as Luigi in his j^outh, 
For true content? The cheerful town, 

warm, close 
And safe, the sooner that thou art mo- 
rose. 
Receives them. And yet once again, 

outbreak 
In storm at night on Monsignor, they 

make 
Such stir about, — whom tliey expect 

from Rome 
To visit Asolo, his brothers' home. 
And say here masses proper to release 
A soul from pain, — what storm dares 

hurt his peace ? 
Calm would lie praj% with his own 

thoughts to ward 
Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' 

guard. 
But Pippa — just one such mischance 

would spoil 
Her day that lightens the next twelve- 
month's toil 
At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil ! 

And here T let time slip for naught ! 
Aha, you fooUiardy sunbeam, cauglit 
With a single splasli from my ewer ! 
You that would mock the best pursuer. 
Was my basin over-deep? 
One splash of water ruins you asleep. 
And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits 
Wheeling and counter wheeling. 
Reeling, broken beyond healing : 
Now grow together on the ceiling ! 
That will task your wits. 
Whoever it was quenched fire first, 

hoped to see 
Morsel after morsel flee 
As merrily, as giddily . . . 
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on. 
Where settles by degrees the radiant 

cripple ? 
Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ? 
New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' 

nipple. 
Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk 

bird's poll ! 
Be siu-e if corals, branching 'neath the 

ripple [roll 

Of ocean, bud there, ^fairies watch un- 



Such turban-flowers ; I say, such lamps 

disperse 
Thick red flame through that dusk green 

universe ! 
I am queen of thee, floweret ! 
And each fleshy blossom 
Preserve I not — (safer 
Tlian leaves that embower it, 
Or shells that embosom) 
— From weevil and chafer? 
Laugli througli my j)ane tlien ; solicit 

the bee ; 
Gibe him, be sui"e ; and, in midst of thy 

glee. 
Love thy queen, worship me ! 

— Worship whom else ? For am I not, 

this day, 
Whate'er I please ? What shall 1 please 

to-day ? 
My moi'n, noon, eve and night — how 

spend my day ? 
To-morrow I must be Pipj^a who winds 

silk. 
The whole year round, to earn just bread 

and milk : 
But, this one day, I have leave to go. 
And play out my fancy's fullest games ; 
I may fancy all day — and it shall be so — 
That I taste of the pleasures, am called 

by the names 
Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo ! 

See ! Up the hillside yonder, through the 

morning. 
Some one shall love me, as tlie world 

calls love : 
I am no less than Ottima, take warning ! 
The gardens, and the great stone house 

above. 
And other house for shrubs, all glass in 

front, 
Are mine ; where Sebald steals, as he is 

wont. 
To court me, while old Luca yet reposes : 
And therefore, till the shrub-house door 

uncloses, 
I . . . what now ? — give abundant cause 

for prate 
About me — Ottima, I mean — of late. 
Too bold, too confident she'll still face 

down 
The spitefullest of talkers in our town. 
How we talk in the little town below ! 
But love, love, love — there's better 

love, I know ! 
This foolish love was only day's first 

ofl'er ; 
I choose my next love to defy the scoffer : 



572 



BRITISH POETS 



For do not our Bride and Bridegroom 
sally 

Out of Possagno church at noon ? 

Their house looks over Orcana valley : 

"Why should not I be the bride as soon 

As Ottinia? For I saw, beside, 

Arrive last night that little bride — 

Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash 

Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black 
bright tresses, 

Blacker than all except the black eye- 
lash ; 

I wonder she contrives those lids no 
dresses ! 

— So strict was she, the veil 

Should cover close her pale 

Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and 
scarce toucli, 

Scarce touch, reuieaiber, Jules ! For are 
not such 

Used to be tended, flower-like, every 
feature, 

As if one's breath would fray the lily of 
a creature ? 

A soft and easy life these- ladies lead : 

Whiteness in us were wonderful in- 
deed . 

Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, 

Keep that foot its lady primness, 

Let those ankles never swerve 

From their exquisite reserve, 

Yet have to trip along the streets like nie, 

All Imt naked to tlie knee ! 

How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss 

So startling as her real first infant kiss? 

Oh, no — not envy, this ! 

— Not envy, sure ! — for if you gave me 

Leave to take or to refuse, 

In earnest, do you think I'd choose 

That sort of new love to enslave nie ? 

Mine should have lapped me round from 
the beginning ; 

As little fear of losing it as winning : 

Lovers grow cold, men learn .lo liate 
their wives. 

And only parents' love can last our lives. 

At eve the Son and Motlier, gentle pair. 

Commune inside our turret : what pre- 
vents 

My being Luigi ? While that mossy lair 

Of lizards through the winter-time is 
stirred 

With each to each imparting sweet in- 
tents 

For this new-year, as brooding bird to 
bird — 

(For I observe of late, the evening walk 

Of lAiigi and his motlier, alwaj s ends 



Inside our ruined turret, where they talk. 
Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than 

friends) 
— Let me be cared about, kept out of 

liarni. 
And schemed for, safe in love as with 

a charm ; 
Let me be Luigi ! If I t)nly knew 
What was my mother's face — my father, 

too! 
Nay, if you come to that, best love of all 
Is God's ; then why not have God's love 

befall 
Myself as, in tlie palace by the Dome, 
Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the 

home 
Of his dead brother ; and God bless in 

turn 
That lieart which beats, those ej^es which 

mildly burn 
With love for all men ! I, to-night at 

least. 
Would be that holy and beloved priest. 

Now wait ! — even I already seem to 

share 
In God's love : what does New-year's 

hymn declare? 
What other meaning do these verses 

bear.? 

All service ranks the same with God : 
If 7101V. as formerly he trod 
Paradise, his 2)rese»ce fills 
Our earth, each only as God wills 
Can work — God's puppets, best and 

woi^tt, 
Are toe ; there is no last nor first. 

Say not "a small event!" Why 

" small?" 
Costs it more pain that this, ye call 
A ''great event," shoidd come to 

X)ass, 
Tlian that ? Untioine me from the 

mass 
Of deeds which make up life, one deed 
Power shall fall shoi-t in or exceed ! 

And more of it, and more of it ! — oh yes — 
I will pass each, and see their happiness. 
And envy none^ — being just as great, no 

doubt, 
Useful to men, and dear to God as they I 
A pretty tiling to care about 
So miglitily, this single holiday ! 
But let the sun shine ! Wherefore re- 
pine ? 
— With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



573 



Down ilie grass patli gray with dew, 
Under the puie-wood, bhnd with boughs, 
Wliere the swallow never flew 
Nor yet cicala dared carouse — 
No, dared carouse ! 

[She enters the street. 

I. MORNING 

Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house. Luca's 
Wife, Ottima, and her Paramour , the Gernuai 
Sebald. 

Sebald. [sings] Let the iratcJiing 
lids wink ! 
Day's ablaze with ei/cs, think ! 
Deep into the night, drink ! 

Ottima. Niglit? Such may be your 

Rliin eland niglits, perhaps ; 
But tliis blood-red beam through the 

shutter's chink 
— We call such light, the morning : lot 

us see ! 
Mind liow you grope your way, though ! 

How these tall 
Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the 

lattice 
Behind that frame ! — Nay, do I bid you ? 

— Sebald, 
It shakes tlie dust down on me ! Why, 

of course 
The slide-holt catches. Well, are you 

content. 
Or must I find you sometliing else to 

spoil ? 
Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is 't 

full morning ? 
Oh, don't speak then ! 

Seb. Ay, thus it used to be ! 

Ever your house was, I remember, sliut 
Till mid-day ; I observed that, as I 

strolled 
On mornings through the vale here ; 

country girls 
Were noisj^, washing garments in the 

brook, 
Hinds drove the slow 'white oxen up the 

lulls : 
But no, your house was mute, wcjuld 

ope no eye ! 
And wisely : j'ou were plotting one thing- 
there. 
Nature, anotlier outside. I looked up — 
Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron 

bars. 
Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. 
Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants 

laughed 
And said, " The old man sleeps with the 

voung wife." 



This house was his, this chair, this win- 
dow — his. 
Otti. Ah, the clear morning ! I can 
see Saint Mark's ; 
That black streak is the belfry. Stop : 

Vicenza 
Should lie . . . there's Padua, plain 

enough, that blue ! 

Look o'er my slioulder, follow my finger ! 

Seb. Morning? 

It seems to me a night with a smi added. 

Where's dew, wliere's freshness? That 

bruised phuit, I bruised 
In getting tlirougli the lattice yestereve, 
Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's 

mark 
I" the dust o' the sill. 

Otti. Oh, sliut tlie lattice, pray ! 

Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent 
blood liere. 
Foul as tlie nujrn may be. 

There, shut the world out ! 
How do you feel now, Ottima ? There, 

curse 
Tlie world and all outside ! Let us throw 

off 
This mask : how do you bear yourself? 

Let's out 
With all of it ! 

Otti. Best never speak of it. 

Seb. Best speak again and vet again 
of'it. 
Till words cease to be more than words. 

" His blood,"' 
For instance — let those two words mean, 

"His blood" 
And nothing more. Notice, I '11 say 
them now, "His l>lood."' 
Otti. Assuredly if I repented 

The deed— 

Seb. Repent ? Who sliould repent, 
or wliy? 
Wliat puts that in your head? Did I 

once say 
That I repented ? 

Otti. No ; I said the deed . . . 

Seb. "The deed " and " the event "— 
just now it was 
"Our passion's fruit" — the devil take 

such cant! 
Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, 
I am his cut-throat, you are . . . 

Otti. Here's the wine : 

I brought it when we left the house 

above, 
And glasses too — wine of both sorts. 
Black ? Wliite tlien ? 
Seb. But am not I his cut-throat? 
What are you ? 



574 



BRITISH POETS 



Otti. There trudges on his business 

from the Duomo 
Benet the Capuchin, with his brown 

hood 
And bare feet ; always in one place at 

church, 
Close under the stone wall by the south 

entry. 
I used to take liim for a brown cold 

piece 
Of the wall's self, as out of it he i"ose 
To let me pass — at first, I say, I used : 
Now, so has that dumb figure fastened 

on me, 
I rather should account the plastered 

wall 
A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. 
This, Sebald ? 
Seh. No, the white wine — the white 

wine ! 
Well, Ottima, I promised no new year 
Should rise on us the ancient shameful 

way; 
Nor does it rise. Pour on ! To your 

black eyes ! 
Do you remember last damned New 

Year's day ? 
Otti. You brought those foreign 

prints. We looked at them 
Over the wine and fruit. I liad to 

scheme 
To get him from the fire. Nothing but 

saying 
His own set wants the proof-mark, 

roused him up 
To hunt them out. 

Seh. 'Faith, he is not alive 

To fondle you before my face. 

Otti. Do you 

Fondle me then ! Who means to take 

your life 
For that, my Sebald? 

Seh. Hark you, Ottima ! 

One thing to guard against. We'll not 

jnake much 
One of tlie other — that is, not make 

more 
Parade of warmth, childish officious 

coil, 
Than yesterday : as if, sweet, I supposed 
Proof upon proof were needed now, now 

first, 
To show I love you — yes, still love you — 

love you 
In spite of Luca and what's come to him 
— Sure sign we had him ever in our 

thoughts, 
White sneering old reproachful face and 

all! 



We '11 even quarrel, love, at times, as if 
We still could lose each other, were not 

tied 
By this : conceive you ? 
Otti. Love ! 

Seh. Not tied so sure ! 

Because though I was wrought upon, 

have struck 
His insolence back into him — am I 
So surely yours ? — therefore forever 

yours ? 
Otti. Love, to be wise, (one counsel 

pays another,) 
Should we have — months ago, when first 

we loved, 
For instance that May morning we two 

stole 
Under the green ascent of sycamores^ — 
If we had come upon a thing like that 
Suddenly . . . 
Seh. "A thing" — there again — " a 

thing ! " 
Otti. Then, Venus' body, had we 

come upon 
My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered 

corpse 
Within there, at liis couch-foot, covered 

close — 
Would you have pored upon it ? Why 

persist 
In poring now upon it ? For 't is liere 
As much as there in the deserted liouse : 
You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me. 
Now lie is dead I hate him worse : I 

hate . • . 
Dare you stay here ? I would go back 

and hold 
His two dead hands, and say, " I hate 

you worse, 
Luca, than "... 
Seh. Off, off — take your hands off 

mine, 
'T is the hot evening — off ! oh, morning 

is it? 
Otti. There's one thing must be done ; 

you know what thing. 
Come in and help to carry. We may 

sleep [night. 

Anywhere in the whole wide house to- , 
Seh. What would come, think you, if 

we let him lie 
Just as he is ? Let him lie there until 
The angels take him I He is turned by 

this 
Off from his face beside, as you will see. 
Otti. This dusty pane might serve for 

looking-glass. 
Three, four — four gray hairs 1 Is it so 

3'ou said 



ROBERT BROWNING 



575 



A plait of hair should wave across my 

neck ? 
No — this way. 

Seb. Ottima, I would give your neck 
Each splendid shoulder, both those 

breasts of yours, 
That this were undone ! Killing ! Kill 

the world, 
SoLuca lives again ! — ay, lives to sputter 
His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and 

feign 
Surprise that I return at eve to sup, 
Wlien all tlie morning I was loitering 

here — 
Bid me dispatch my business and begone. 
I would . . . 
Otti. See ! 

Seb. No, I'll finish. Do you think 

I fear to speak tlie bare truth once for 

all? 
All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fine 
To suffer ; tliere's a recompense in guilt ; 
One must be venturous and fortunate : 
What is one young for, else ? In age 

we '11 sigh 
O'er the wild reckless wicked days flown 

over ; 
Still, we liave lived : the vice was in its 

place. 
But to have eaten Luca's bread, have 

worn 
His clothes, have felt his money swell 

my purse — 
Do lovers in romances sin that way ? 
Why, I was starving when I used to call 
And teach you music, starving while 

you plucked me 
These flowers to smell ! 

Otti. My poor lost friend ! 

Seb. He gave me 

Life, nothing less : wliat if he did re- 

pi'oach 
My pei'fidy, and threaten, and do more — 
Had he no right ? What was to wonder 

at? 
He sat by us at table quietly : 
AVhy must j^ou lean across till our cheeks 

touched ? 
Could lie do less than make pretence to 

strike ? 
'Tis not the crime's sake — I'd commit 

ten crimes 
Greater, to have this crime wiped out, 

undone ! 
And you — O how feel you ? Feel you 

for me ! 
Otti. Well th.en, I love you better 

now than ever, [you) — 

And best (look at me while I speak to 



Best for the crime ; nor do I grieve, in 

truth. 
This mask, this simulated ignorance, 
Tills affectation of simplicity, 
Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of 

ours 
May not now be looked over : look it 

down ! 
Great ? let it be great ; but the joys it 

brought. 
Pay they or no its price ? Come ; they 

or it ! 
Speak not ! The past, wouhi you give 

up the past 
Such as it is, pleasure and crime to- 
gether ? 
Give up that noon I owned my love for 

you ? 
Tlie garden's silence : even the single 

bee 
Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped, 
And where he hid you only could sur- 
mise 
By some campanula chalice set a-swing. 
Who stammered — *' Yes, I love you ? " 

Seb. And I drew 

Back ; put far back your face with both 

my hands 
Lest you should grow too full of nie — 

your face 
So seemed athirst for my whole soul and 

body ! 
Otti. And when I ventured to receive 

you here, 
Made you steal hither in the mornings — 
Seb. Wlien 

I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house 

here, 
Till the red fire on its glazed windows 

spread 
To a yellow haze ? 

Otti. Ah — my sign was, the sun 

Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut- 
tree 
Nipped by the first frost. 

Seb. You would always laugh 

At my wet boots : I had to stride through 

grass 
Over my ankles. 

Otti. Then our crowning night ! 

Seb. The July night ? 
Otti. The day of it too, Sebald I 

When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed 

with heat. 
Its black-blue canopy suffered descend 
Close on us both, to weigh down each to 

eacli. 
And smother upall life except our life. 
So lay we till the storm came. 



576 



BRITISH POETS 



Seh. How it came ! 

Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you 
recollect ; 
Swift ran the searching tempest over- 
head ; 
And ever and anon some bright white 

shaft 
Burned through the pine-tree roof, liere 

burned and there, 
As if God's messenger through the close 

wood screen 
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a 

venture, 
Feeling for guilty tliee and me : then 

broke 
Tlie thunder like a whole sea overhead — 
Seb. Yes ! 

Otti. — While I stretched myself upon 
you, hands 
To hands, my mouth toyour hotmoutli, 

and shook 
All my locks loose, and covered you with 

them — 
You, Sebald, the same you ! 
Seb. Slower, Ottima ! 

Otti. And as we lay — 
Seh. Less vehemently ! Love me ! 
Forgive me ! Take not words, mere 

words, to heart ! 
Your breath is woi-se than wine. Breathe 

slow, speak slow ! 
Do not lean on me ! 

Otti. Sebald. as we lay, 

Rising and falling only with our pants, 
Wlio said, " Let death come now ! ' T is 

rjglit to die ! 
Right to be punished ! Naught completes 

sucli bliss 
But woe ! " Who said that ? 

Seb. How did we ever rise ? 

Was 't that we slept? Why did it end ? 

Otti. I felt you 

Taper into a point the ruffled ends 

Of my loose locks 'twixt both "your 

liumid lips. 
My hair is fallen now : knot it again ! 
Seb. I kiss j^ou now, dear Ottima, 
now and now ! 
This way? Will you forgive me — be 

once more 
My great queen ? 

Otti. Bind it thrice about my brow ; 
Crown me j'our qvieen, your spirit's 

arbitress. 
Magnificent in sin. Say that ! 

Seb. I crown you 

My great white queen, mj^ spirit's arbi- 
tress. 
Magnificent . . . 



[From without is heard ilie voice of Pippa 
singing — 

The 1/ears at the spring 
And day a at the morn, ; 
]\Ioniing's at seven ; 
The hilhide's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the iving ; 
Tlie snail's on tlie thorn: 
God'.'i ill his heaven — 
All's right-u-ith the tcorld! 

[Pippa passes. 

Seb. God's in his lieaven ! Do you liear 

tliat ? Who spoke ? 
You, you spoke ! 

Otti. Oh— that little ragged girl ! 

She must have rested on the step : we 

give them 
But this one holiday the wliole year 

round 
Did 3'ou ever see our silk-mills — their 

inside? 
There are ten silk-mills now belong to 

you. 
She stoo)>s to pick my double hearts- 
ease . . . Sh ! 
Slie does not hear : call you out louder 1 
Seb. Leave me ! 

Go, get your clothes on — dress those 

shoulders ! 
Otti. Sebald? 

Seh. Wipe off that paint ! I hate you. 
01 1 i. Miserable ! 

Seb. My God, and she is emptied of it 

now ! 
Outright now ! — how miraculously gone 
All of tlie grace — had she not strange 

grace once ? 
Why, tlie blank cheek hangs listless 

as it likes, 
No purpose holds the features up to- 

getlier. 
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin 
Stay in their places : and tlie very hair, 
Tliat seemed to liave a sort of life in it. 
Drops, a dead web ! 

Otti. Speak to me — not of me ! 

Seb. — That round great full-orbed face, 

wliere not an angle 
Broke the delicious indolence — all 

broken ! 
Otti. Tome — not of me! Ungrateful, 

perjured cheat ! 
A coward too : but ingrate's worse than 

all! 
Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing 

lie! 
Leave me ! Betray me ! I can see your 

drift ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



577 



A lie tliat walks and eats and drinks ! 

Seb. My God ! 

Those morbid olive faultless shoulder- 
blades — 
I should have known there was no blood 

beneatli ! 
Otti. You hate me then ? You Iiate 

nie then ? 
Seb. To think 

Slie would succeed in her absurd attempt. 
And fascinate by sinning, show herself 
Superior — guilt from its excess superior 
To innocence ! That little peasant's voice 
Has righted all again. Though I be lost, 
I know which is the better, never fear, 
Of vice or virtue, purity or lust, 
Nature or trick ! I see wliat I have done, 
Entirely now ! Oh I am proud to feel 
Such torments — lettlie world take credit 

thence — 
I, having done my deed, pay too its 

price ! 
I hate, hate — curse you ! God's in liis 

heaven ! 
Otti. —'Me ! 

Me ! no, no, Sebald, not yourself — kill 

me ! 
Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill 

me — then 
Yourself — then — presently — first hear 

me speak ! 
I alwaj's meant to kill myself — wait, 

you! 
Lean on my bi'east— not as a breast; 

don't love me 
Tlie more because you lean on me, my 

own 
Heart's Sebald ! There, there, both 

deaths presently ! 
Seb. My brain is drowned now — quite 

drowned : all I feel 
Is . . . is. at swift-recuiring intervals. 
A hurry-down within me. as of waters 
Loosened to smother up some gliastly 

pit : 
There they go — whirls from a black 

fierj' sea ! 
Otti. Not me —to him. O God, be 

merciful ! 

Talk by the way, while Pippa /.s passiny from the 
hillsideto Orcana. Foreign Students of paint- 
ing and sculpture, from Venice, assembled 
opposite the house of Jules, a. young French 
statuary, at Passagno. 

1st Student. Attention ! My own post is 
beneath this window, but the pomegranate 
clump yonder will hide three or four of you 
with a "little squeezing, and Schramm and 
his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, 

37 



five — who's a defaulter ? We want evei-y- 
body, for Jules must not be suffered to 
hurt his bride when the jest's found out. 

2(7- Stud. All hei'e ! Only our poet's 
away— never having much meant to be 
present, moonstrike him ! The airs of that 
fellow, that Giovacchino ! He was in vio- 
lent love with himself, and had a fair pros- 
pect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested 
was it,— when suddenly a woman falls in 
love with him, too ; and out of pure jeal- 
ousy he takes himself off to Trieste, im- 
mortal poem and all : whereto is this 
prophetical epitaph appended already, as 
Bluphocks assures me, — " Here a majn- 
moth-poem lies, Fouled, to death hyhut- 
tcrflics" His own fault, the simpleton ! 
Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife 
in your entrails, he should write, says 
Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly. 
— ^^sculaplus, (I n Epic. Catalogue of the 
drugs: Hehe's Plaister—Otie strip Cools 
your lip. Pho'hus^ eundsiftn — One bottle 
Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus — 
One bo.v Cures . . . 

3rt Stud. Subside, my fine fellow ! If the 
marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will 
certainly be here in a minute with his bride. 

2d, Stud. Good !— only, so should the 
poet's muse have been universally accept- 
able, says Bluphocks, ct canibus nostris 
. . . and Delia not better known to our 
literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino ! 

1st Stud. To the point, now. Where's 
Gottlieb, the new-comer ? Oh,— listen, Gott- 
lieb, to what has called down this piece of 
friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we 
now assemble to witness the winding-up. 
We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, 
when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury 
by and by ; I am spokesman — the verses 
that are to undeceive Jules bear my name 
of Lutwyche— but each professes himself 
alike insulted by this strutting stone- 
squarer, who came along from Paris to 
Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to 
Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in 
a day or two alone again — oh, alone indu- 
bitably ! to Rome and Florence. He, for- 
sooth, take up his portion with these disso- 
lute, brutalized, heartless bunglers !^so he 
was heard to call us all. Now, is Schramm 
brutalized, I should like to know ? Am I 
heartless ? 

Gottlieb. Why, somewhat heartless; for, 
suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you 
choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you 
will have brushed off— what do folks style 
it?— the bloom of his life. It is too late to 
alter ? These love-letters, now, you call 
his — I can't laugh at them. 

Uh, Stud. Because you never read the 
sham letters of our inditing which. drew 
forth these. 

6ott. His discovery of the truth will be 
frightful. 



578 



BRITISH POETS 



4th Stud. That's the joke. But you 
should have joined us at the beginning : 
there's no doubt he loves the girl— loves a 
model he might hire by the hour ! 

Gott. See here! "He has been accus- 
tomed," he v^'rites, "to have Canova's 
women about him, in stone, and the world's 
women beside him, in flesh; these being as 
much below, as those above, his soul's as- 
pii'ation; but now he is to have the reality." 
There you laugh again ! I say, you wipe off 
the very dew of his youth. 

1st Stud. Schramm 1 (Take the pipe out 
of his mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose 
the bloom of his youth ? 

Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is 
ever lost in this world: look at a blossom- 
it drops presently, having done its service 
and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and 
where would be the blossom's place could it 
continue ? As well affirm that your eye is 
no longer in your body, because its earliest 
favorite, whatever it may have first loved 
to look on, is dead and done with — as that 
any affection is lost to the soul when its 
first object, whatever happened first to sat- 
isfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep 
but ever looking, whether with the body's 
eye or the mind's, and you will soon find 
something to look on ! Has a man done 
wondering at women ? — there follow men, 
dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done 
wondering at men ? — there's God to wonder 
at : and the faculty of wonder may be, at 
the same time, old and tired enough with 
respect to its first object, and yet young 
and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its 
novel one. Thus . . . 

l.sf Stud. Put Schramm's pipe into his 
mouth again ! There, you see ! Well, this 
Jules ... a wretched fribble — oh, I 
watched his disportings at Possagno, the 
other day ! Canova's gallery — you know; 
There he marches first resolvedly past 
great works by the dozen without vouch- 
safing an eye : all at once he stops full at 
the Psiehe-fancinUa— Gunnot pass that old 
acquaintance without a nod of encourage- 
ment—" In your new place, beaiity ? Then 
behave yourself as well here as at Munich 
— I see you ! " Next he posts himself delib- 
erately before the unfinished Pictd for half 
an hour without moving, till up he starts 
of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into 
— I say, into— the group; by which gesture 
you are informed that precisely the sole 
point he had not fully mastered in Canova's 
practice was a certain method of using the 
drill in the articulation of the knee-joint — 
and that, likewise, has he mastered at 
length ! Good-by, therefore, to poor Canova 
— whose gallery no longer needs detain his 
successor Jules, the predestinated novel 
thinker in marble ! 

5th Stud. Tell him about the women: go 
on to the women 1 



1st Stud. Why, on that matter he could 
never be supercilious enough. How should 
we be other (he said) than the poor devils, 
you see, with those debasing habits we 
cherish ! He was not to wallow in that 
mire, at least ; he would wait, and love 
only at the proper time, and meanwhile put 
up with the Psichc-fancmlld. Now, I hap- 
pened to hear of a young Greek— real 
Greek girl at Malamocco : a true Islander, 
do you see, with Alciphron's " hair like sea- 
moss " — ■ Schramm knows ! — white and 
quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years 
old at farthest,— a daughter of Natalia, so 
she swears — that hag Natalia, who helps us 
to models at three lire an hour. We se- 
lected this girl for the heroine of our jest. 
So, first, Jules received a scented letter- 
somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Acad- 
emy, and my picture was nothing to it : a 
profound admirer bade him persevere — 
would make herself known to him ere long. 
(Paolina, my little friend of the Fcnice, 
transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the 
mysterious correspondent gave certain 
hints of her peculiar charms— the pale 
cheeks, the black hair— whatever, in short, 
had struck us in our Malamocco model ; we 
retained her name, too— Phene, which is, 
by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of 
Jules finding himself distinguished from 
the herd of us by such a creature ! In his 
very first answer he proposed marrying his 
monitress: and fancy us over these letters, 
two, three times a day, to receive and dis- 
patch ! I concocted the main of it: relations 
were in the way — secrecy must be observed 
in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only 
speak to her when they were indissolubly 
united ? St— st— Here they come 1 

ijth Stud. Both of them! Heaven's love, 
speak softly, speak within yourselves! 

5th Stud. Look at the bridgroom! Half 
his hair in storm and half in calm, — patted 
down over the left temple, — like a frothy 
cup one blows on to cool it : and the same 
old blouse that he murders the marble in. 

2d Stud. Not a rich vest like yours, Han- 
nibal Scratchy ! — rich, that your face may 
the better set it off. 

mh Stud. And the bride ! Yes, sure 
enough, our Phene! Should you have 
known her in her clothes ? How magnifi- 
cently pale. 

Gott. She does not also take it for ear- 
nest, I hope ? 

1st Stud. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is. 
We settle with Natalia. 

6th Stud. She does not speak— has evi- 
dently let out no word. The only thing is, 
will she equally remember the rest of her 
lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses 
which are to break the secret to Jules ? 

Gott.- How he gazes on her ! Pity— pity! 

1st Stud. They go in; now, silence! 
You three, — not nearer the window, mind, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



579 



than that pomegranate; just where the 
little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us 
singing, is seated. 

II. NOON 

Over Orcana. The hoiise of Jules, who crosses 
its threshold with Phene: she is silent, on 
which Jules begins — 

Do not die, Phene ! I am j'ours now, 

you 
Are mine now ; let fate reach me how 

slie likes. 
If you'll not die: so, never die! Sit 

liere — 
My work-room's single seat. I over- 
lean 
This length of hair and lastrous front ; 

tliey turn 
Like an entire flower upward : eyes, 

lips, last 
Your cliin — no, last j^our throat turns: 

't is tlieir .scent 
Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, 

look ever 
This one way till I change, grow you — 

I could 
Cliange into you, beloved ! 

You by me. 
And I by you ; this is your hand in mine. 
And side by side we sit : all 's true. 

Tliank God ! 
I have .spoken : speak you ! 

O my life to cojnc ! 
My Tydeus must be carved that 's there 

in clay : 
Yet how be carved, with y(ju about the 

room ? 
Where must I place you ? Wlien I tliiiik 

that once 
This room-full of rough block-work 

seemed my heaven 
Williout you ! Shall I ever work again, 
(ret fairly into my old ways again, 
15id each conception stand while, trait 

by trait. 
My hand transfers its lineaments to 

stone ? 
Will my mere fancies live near jMtu, 

their truth — 
The live trutli, passing and repassing 

me. 
Sitting beside me ? 

Now speak I 

Only first. 
See, all your letters ! Was 't not well 

contrived ? 
Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe ; she 

keeps 



Your letters next her skin : which drops 

out foremost ? 
Ah, — this that swam down like a first 

moonbeam 
Into my world ! 

Again those eyes complete 
Their melancholy survey, sweet and 

slow, 
Of all my room holds ; to return and 

rest 
On me, with pity, yet some wonder too : 
As if God bade some spirit plague a 

w^orld, f prise 

A)id this were the one moment of sur- 
And sorrow while she took her station, 

])ausing 
O'er what she sees, finds good, and must 

destroy ! 
What gaze you at ? These ? Books, I 

told you of ; 
Let j'our first word to me rejoice them, 

too : 
This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red. 
Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — 
Read this line ... no shame — Homer's 

be the Greek 
First breathed me from the lips of my 

Greek girl ! 
This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type 
With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page 

and page. 
To mark great places with due gratitude ; 
" He said, and on Antinous directed 
A bitter nhaft "... a flower blots out 

the rest ! 
Again upon your search? My statues. 

then ! 
— All, do not mind that — better that will 

look 
When cast in bi'onze — an Almaign Kai- 
ser, that. 
Swart-green and gold, with truncheon 

based on hip. 
Tliis, rather, turn to ! What, unrecog- 
nized ? 
I tiiought you would have seen that here 

you sit 
As I imagined you, — Hippolyta, 
Naked upon her bright Numidian hoi'se. 
Recall you this then ? " Carve in bold 

relief " — 
So you commanded — " carve, against I 

come, 
A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was. 
Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, 
Wiio rises 'neath the lifted myrtle- 
branch. 
' Praise those who slew Hipparchus ! ' 

cry the guests, 



58o 



BRITISH POETS 



' While o"er thy head the singer's myrtle 

waves 
As erst above our champion : stand up, 

all ! ' " 
See, I have labored to express your 

thought. 
Quite round, a cluster of mere liands 

and arms 
(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all 

sides, 
Only consenting at the branch's end 
Tliey strain toward) serves for frame to 

a sole face. 
The Praiser's, in the centre : who with 

eyes 
Sightless, so bend they back to light in- 
side 
His brain where visionary forms throng 

up, 
Sings, minding nottliat palpitating arch 
Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip 

of wine 
From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor 

crowns cast off, 
Violet and parsley crowns to trample 

on — 
Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts ap- 
prove. 
Devoutly their unconquerable hymn. 
But you must sav a '" well" totliat— say 

" well ! " 
Because you gaze — am I fantastic. 

sweet ? 
Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marl)le — 

inarbly 
Even tothe silence ! Why, before I found 
Tiie real fiesli Phene, I inured myself 
To see, througliout nil nature varied 

stuff 
For better nature's birth by means of 

art : 
With me. each substance tended to one 

ft)rm 
Of beauty — to the human archetype. 
On every side occurred suggestive germs 
Of tl)at — the tree, tlie flower— or take 

the fruit, — 
Some rosy shape, continuing tlie peach, 
Curved bee^^'ise o'er its bough ; as rosy 

limbs. 
Depending, nestled in the leaves; and 

just 
From a cleft rose- peach the whole Dryad 

sprang. 
But of tlie stuffs one can be master of, 
How I divinerl tlieir capabilities ! 
From the soft-rinded smoothening facile 

cli.ilk [brace. 

That yields your outline to the air's em- 



Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ; 
Down to the crisp imperious steel, .so 

sure 
To cut its one confided thought clean out 
Of all the world. But marble ! — neath 

my tools 
More pliable than jelly — as it were 
Some clear primordial creature dug from 

depths 
In the earth's heart, where itself breeds 

itself, 
And whence all baser substance may be 

worked ; 
Refine it off to air, you may. — condense 

it 
Down to the diamond : — is not metal 

there. 
When o'er the sudden speck my Chisel 

trips ? 
— Not fiesh, as flake off flake I scale, ap- 
proach , 
Lay bai-e those bluish veins of blood 

asleep ! 
Lurks flame in no strange windings 

where, surprised 
By the swift implement sent home at 

once, 
Fluslies and glowings radiate and hover 
About its track ? 

Phene? wliat — why is this? 
That whitening clieek, those still dilat- 
ing eyes ! 
Ah, you will die — I knew that you would 

die ! 

Phene hi'c/int), oit Jii.i havinij Utmj rmiaiitetl 
silent. 

Phene. Now the end "s coming ; to be 

sure, it must 
Have ended sometime ! Tush, wliyneed 

I speak 
Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to 

mind 
One half of it. beside ; and do not care 
For old Natalia now. nor any of them. 
Oil, you — what are you? — if I do not try 
To saj^ the words Natalia made me 

learn, [self 

To please your friends. — it is to keep mj- 
Where your voice lifted me, by letting 

that 
Proceed : but can it ? Even you. per- 
haps. 
Cannot take up. now you have once let 

fall. 
The music's life, and me along with 

tliat— 
No, or you would ; We "11 sta3% then, 

as we are : 



ROBERT BROWNING 



581 



Above the world. 

You creature with the eyes ! 
If I could look forever up to them, 
As now you let me, — I believe, all sin. 
All memory of wrong done, suffering 

borne. 
Would drop down, low and lower, to the 

earth 
Whence all that 's low comes, and there 

touch and staj'' 
— Never to overtake the I'est of me, 
All that, unspotted, reaches up to you, 
Drawn by those eyes ! What rises is 

myself. 
Not me the shame and suffering ; but 

they sink. 
Are left, I rise above them. Keep me 

so. 
Above the world ! 

But you sink, for your eyes 
Are altering — altered! Stay — "I love 

you, love '".... 
I could prevent it if I understood : 
More of your words to me : was 't in the 

tone 
Or the words, your power ? 

Or stay — I will repeat 
Their speech, if that contents you ! 

Ouh^ change 
No more, and I shall find it presently 
Far back here, in the brain 3'ourself 

filled up. 
Natalia threatened me that harm should 

follow 
Unless I spoke their lesson to the end. 
But harm to me, I thought she meant, 

not you. 
Your friends, — Natalia said the}' wei'e 

your friends 
And meant you well, — because, I 

doubted it, 
Observing (what was very strange to 

see) 
On every face, so different in all else. 
The same smile girls like me are used to 

bear. 
But never men, men cannot stoop so low; 
Yet your friends, speaking of you, used 

that smile. 
That hateful smirk of boundless self- 
conceit 
Which seems to take possession of the 

world 
And make of God a tame confederate. 
Purveyor to their appetites you 

know ! 
But still Natalia said they were your 

friends, [the more. 

And they assented though they smiled 



And all came round me, — that thin Eng- 
lishman 

With light lank hair seemed leader of 
the rest ; 

He held a paper — " What we want," 
said he. 

Ending some explanation to his friends — ■ 

" Is something slow, involved and mys- 
tical. 

To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his 
taste 

And lure him on until, at innermost 

Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may 
find— this! 

— As in the apple's core, the noisome fly: 

For insects on the rind are seen at once, 

And brushed aside as soon, but this is 
found 

Only when on the lips or loathing 
tongue." 

And so he read what I have got by heart : 

I '11 speak it, — " Do not die, love ! I am 
yours ". . . . 

N(j — is not that, or like that, part of 
words 

Yourself began by speaking ? Strange to 
lose 

What cost such pains to learn ! Is this 
more rigjit ? 

I am a painter who cannot paint ; 

In my life, a devil rather than saint ; 

In mij hrain, as poor a creature too : 

No end to all I canuot do! 

Yet do o)ie tiling at least I can — 

Love a man or hate a man 

Supremely : thus my love began. 

Through the Valley of Love I ivent. 

In the lovingest spot to abide. 

And just on the verge where I pitched my 

tent, 
I found Hate divelling beside. 
(Let the Bridegroom askwJiat the painter 

meant. 
Of his Bride, of the p)eerh'ss Bride !) 
And further, 1 1 rarer sed Haters grove, 
In the hatefullest nook to dwell ; 
Btit lo, where I filing myself prone, 

couched Love 
Where the shadow threefold fell. 
(The meaning — those black bride's-eyes 

above. 
Not a painter's lip should tell !) 

" And here," said he, "Jules probably 

will ask, 
' You have black eyes, Love, — you are, 

sure enough, [deed 

]\Iy peerless bride, — then do you tell in- 



582 



BRITISH POETS 



What needs some explanation ! What 

means this ? ' " 
— And I am to go on, without a vvoi'd — 

So, I grew wise in Love and Hate, 
From simple that I was of late. 
Once, lohen I loved, I woidd enlace 
Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and 

face 
Of her I loved, in one embrace — 
As if by mere love I could love immense- 

ly! 
Once, ivheii I hated, I ivonld pluyige 
3[y sword, and wipe ivitli the first lunge 
My foe's whole life out like a sponge — 
As if by mere hate Icoidd hate intensely ! 
But now I am wiser, knoiv better the 

fashion 
How passion seeks aid from its opposite 

passion : 
A7id if I see cause to love more, hate 

more 
Tlian ever man loved, ever hated before — 
And seek in the Valley of Love 
The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove 
Wliere my soid may surely reach 
The essence, naught less, of each, 
The Hate of all Hates, the Love 
Of all Loves, in the Valley or Groi'e, — 
I find them the very ivarders 
Each of the other^s borders. 
Wlien. I love most. Love is disguised 
In Hate ; and lohen Hate is surprised 
Li Love, then I hate most: ask 
How Love seniles through Hate's iron 

casque. 
Hate grins through Love's rose-braided 

mask, — 
And how, having hated thee, 
I sought long and pain f idly 
To reach thy heart, nor prick 
Tlie skin but pierce to the quick — 
Ask this, my Jules, and be answered 

straight 
By thy bride— how the iKiinler Lutwyche 

can hate ! 

Jules interposes. 

Lutwyche ! Who else ? But all of 

tliem, no doubt, 
Hated me : they at Venice — presently 
Their turn, however ! You I shall not 

meet : 
If I dreamed, saying this would wake 

me. 

Keep 
What's here, the gold — we cannot meet 

again, 



Consider . and the money was but meant 
For two j^eavs' travel, wliich is over now. 
All chance or hope or care or need of it. 
This — and what comes from selling these, 

my casts 
And books and medals, except . . . let 

them go 
Together, so the produce keeps you safe 
Out of Natalia's clutclies ! If bj' chance 
(For all's chance here) I .should survive 

the gang 
At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, 
We might meet somewhere, since the 

world is wide. 

From trithout is heard the voice of Pifpa, siiitj- 
ing~ 

Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 

\Mien — ivhere — 

Ho2v — can this arin establish her above 

me. 
If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 
iliere already, to eternally reprove me ? 
(•' Hist!" — said Kate the Queen; 
But '• Oh ! " cried the maiden, binding 

her tresses, 
" T is only a page that carols unseen. 
Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ") 

7s she ivronged ? — To the rescue of her 

honor. 
My heart ! 
Is she poor 9 — Viliat costs it to be styled 

a donor f 
Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
But that fortune should have thrust 

all this upon her ! 
{"■Nay, list ! " — bade Kate the Queen ; 
And still cried the maiden, binding her 

tresses, 
" 'T is only a page that carols unseen, 
Fitting your haicks their jesses ! ") 

PIPPA pusses. 

Jules resumes. 

Wliut name was that the little girl sang 
forth ? 

Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who re- 
nounced 

The crown of Cyprus to be lady here 

At Asolo, where still lier memorj^ staj's. 

And peasants sing how once a certain 
page 

Pined for the grace of her so far above 

His power of doing good to, " Kate the 
Queen — 

She never could be wronged, be poor," 
he sighed, 

" Need him to help her ! " 



ROBERT BROWNING 



583 



Yes, a bitter thing 
To see our lady above all need of us ; 
Yet so we look ere we will love ; not I, 
But the world looks so. If whoever 

loves 
Must be, in some sort, god or worship- 
per. 
The blessing or the blest one, queen or 

page, 
Why should we always choose the page's 

part ? 
Here is a woman with utter need of 

me, — 
I find myself queen here, it seems ! 

How strange ! 
Look at the woman here with the new 

soul. 
Like my own Psyche, — fresh upon her 

lips 
Alit. the visionary butterfly, 
Waiting my word to enter and make 

bright, 
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. 
This body had no soul before, but slept 
Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, 

free 
From taint or foul with stain, as outward 

things 
Fastened their image on its passiveness : 
Now it will wake, feel, live — or die again ! 
Shall to produce form out of unshaped 

stuff 
Be Art — and further, to evoke a soul 
From form be nothing ? Tiiis new soul is 

mine ! 

Now, to kill Lutwyche. what would that 

do ? — save 
A wretched dauber, men will hoot to 

death 
Without me, from their hooting. Oh, 

to hear 
God's voice plain as I heard it first, be- 
fore 
They broke in with their laughter ! I 

heard them 
Henceforth, not God. 

To Ancona — Greece — some isle ! 
I wanted silence only ; there is clay 
Everywhere. One may do whate'er one 

likes 
In Art : the only thing is, to make sure 
That one does like it — which takes pains 

to know. 
Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad 

dream ! 
Who, wliat is Lutwyche, what Natalia's 

friends, [my own. 

What the whole world except our love — 



Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not, 
Ere night we travel for your land — some 

isle 
With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — 
I do but break these paltry models up 
To begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, 

I— [him ? 

And save him from my statue meeting 
Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
Like a god going through his world, 

there stands 
One mountain for a moment in the dusk. 
Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its 

brow : 
And you are ever by me while I gaze 
— Are in my arms as now — as now — as 

now ! 
Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas ! 

Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from Or- 
cana to the Turret. Two or three of the Aus- 
trian Police loitering tvith Bluphocks, an 
English vagabond, just in view of the Turret. 

Bluphocks. So, that is your Pippa, the 
Uttle girl who passed us singing ? Well, 
your Bishop's lutendanfs money shall be 
honestly earned :— now, don't make me 
that sour face because I bring the Bishop's 
name into the business ; we know he can 
have nothing to do with such horrors : we 
know that he is a saint and all that a bishop 
should be, who is a great man beside. Oh 
■were hut every worm a magqot, Every fty 
a grig, Every hough a Christmas fagot, 
Every tunc a jig ! in fact, I have abjured 
all religions ; but the last I inclined to was 
the Armenian : for I have travelled, do you 
see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper 
(so styled because there's a sort of bleak 
hungry sun there), you might remark, over 
a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee 
inscription ; and brief as it is, a mere 
glance at it used absolutely to change the 
mood of every bearded passenger. In they 
turned, one and all ; the young and light- 
some, with no irreverent pause, the aged 
and decrepit, with a sensible alaci'ity: 
'twas the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. 
Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in 
learningSyriac—( these are vowels, you dogs 
— follow my stick's end in the mud— Cclar- 
oit, Daril, Fcrio !} and one morning pre- 
sented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, 
c,— I picked it out letter by letter, and what 
was the purport of this miraculous posy ? 
Some cherished legend of the past, you'll 
say — " Hoiv Moses Jtocuspocussccl Egypt's 
land with fly and locrist,"— or '■'■How to 
Jonah sounded harshish, Oct thee up and 
go to Tarshish,'"~or " Hoiv the angel 
meeting Balaam, Straiglit his ass returned 
a. salaam." In nowise ! ^^ Shackahrack — 
Boach — somebody or other— Isaach, Re- 



584 



BRITISH POETS 



cei-ver, Pur-chaser and Ex-clum-gcr of— 
Stolen Goods ! " So talk to me of the re- 
ligion of a bishop ! I have renounced all 
bishops save Bishop Beveridge !— mean to 
live so— and die— ^4« some Greek dog-sage 
dead and merry, Hellward hound in 
Charon's wherry, With food for both 
'Worlds, under and upper, Ltipine^seedand 
Hecate, s supper. And never an obolns. . . 
(though thanks to you, or this Intendant— 
through you, or this Bishop through his In- 
tendant— I possess a burning pocket-full of 
zwanzigers) . . .Topay the Stygian Ferry ! 
1st Policeman. There is the girl, then ; 
go and deserve them the moment you have 
pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his 
mother. [To the rest.] I have been notic- 
ing a house yonder, this long while : not a 
shutter unclosed since morning ! 

•2d. Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the 
silk-mills here : he dozes by the hour, wakes 
up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be 
Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, 
after having bidden young Sebald, the 
foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. 
Never molest such a household, they mean 
well. 

Blup. Only, cannot you tell me some- 
thing of this little Pippa, I must have to do 
with ? One could make something of that 
name. Pippa— that is, short for Felippa— 
rhyming to Panurge consults Hert rip- 
pa— Believest thou King Agrippaf Some- 
thing might be done with that name. 

2d Pol. Put into rhyme that your head 
and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear 
at half a zivanziger ! Leave this fooling, 
and look out ; the afternoon's over or nearly 
so. 

M Pol. Where in this passport of Signor 
Luigi does our Principal instruct you to 
watch him so narrowly y There ? What's 
there beside a simple signature? (That 
English fool's busv watching.) 

2d Pol. Flourish all round— "Put all 
possible obstacles in his way ; " oblong dot 
at the end — " Detain him till further advices 
reach you ;" scratch at bottom — " Send him 
back on pretence of some informality in the 
above ;'" ink-spirt on right hand side (which 
is the case here) — "Arrest him at once." 
Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, 
but my instructions amount to this : if 
Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for 
Vienna— well and good, the passport de- 
posed with us for our visa, is really for his 
own use, they have misinformed the Oflfice, 
and he means well ; but let him stay over 
to-night — there has been the pretence we 
suspect, the accounts of his corresponding 
and holding intelligence with the Carbonari 
are correct, we arrest him at once, to-mor- 
row comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. 
Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough ! 
That is he, entering the turret with his 
mother, no doubt. 



III. EVENING 

Inside tlie Turret on the Hill above Asolo. Luigi 
a?id his Mother entering. 

Mother. If there blew wind, you'd 
hear a long sigh, easing 
The vitniost heaviness of music's heart. 
Luigi. Here in the archway? 
Mother. Oh no, no — in farther, 

Where the echo is made, on the ridge. 

Luigi. Here surely, then. 

How plain the tap of my heel as 1 leaped 

up ! 
Hark — "Lucius Junius!" The very 

ghost of a voice 
Whose body is caught and kept by . . . 

what are those ? 
Mere witliered wallflowers, waving over- 
head ? 
They seeni an elvish group with thin 

bleached hair 
That lean out of their topmost fortress — 

look 
And listen, mountain men, to what we 

say. 
Hand under cliin of eacli grave earthy 

face. 
Up and show faces all of you ! — " All of 

you ! " 
That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet 

comb ; old Franz, 
Come down and meet your fate ? Hark — 
" Meet your fate ! " 
Mother. Let him not meet it, my 
Luigi — do not 
Go to his City ! Putting crime aside, 
Half of these ills of Italy are feigned : 
Your Pellicos and writers for effect, 
Write for effect. 

Luigi. Hush ! Say A writes, and B. 
Mother. These A's and B's write for 
effect. I say. 
Then, evil is in its nature loud, while 

good 
Is silent ; you liear each petty injury. 
None of his virtues ; he is old beside. 
Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. 

Wliy 
Do A and B kill not him themselves ? 

Luigi. They teach 

Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail. 
Others to succeed ; now, if A tried and 

failed, 
I could not teach that : mine 's the lesser 

task. 
Mother, they visit night by night . . . 

Mother. — You, Luigi ? 

Ah, will you let me tell you what you 
are ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 



58s 



Luigi. Why not ? Oh, the one thing 

3'Oii fear to hint, 
You may assure j^ourself I say and say 
Ever to myself ! At times — nay, even 

as now 
We sit — I think my mind is toucli'd, 

suspect 
All is not sound : but is not knowing 

that, 
What constitutes one sane or otherwise ? 
I know I am thus — so, all is right again. 
I laugh at myself as through the town I 

walk, 
And see men merry as if no Italy 
Were suffering : tlien I ponder — " I am 

rich, 
Young, healtliy ; wliy sliould this fact 

trouble me, 
More than it troubles these?"' But it 

does trouble. 
No, trouble 's a bad word : for as I walk 
There's springing and melody and giddi- 
ness. 
And old quaint turns and passages of 

my youth. 
Dreams long forgotten, little in them- 
selves. 
Return to me — whatever may amuse me : 
And earth seems in a truce with me, and 

heaven 
Accoi'ds with me, all things suspend 

their strife, 
Tlie very cicala lauglis " There goes he, 

and there ! 
Feast him, the time is short ; he is on 

his way 
For the world's sake : feast him this once, 

our friend ! " 
And in return ft)r all this. I can trip 
Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go 
This evening, mother ! 

Mother. But mistrust yourself — 

Mistrust the judgment you pronounce 

on him ! 
Luigi. 01), there I feel — am sure that 

I am right ! 
Mother. Mistrust your judgment tiien, 

of the mere means 
To this wild enterprise : say, you are 

right, — 
How should one in your state e'er bring 

to pass 
What would require a cool head, a cool 

heart. 
And a calm hand ? You never will es- 
cape. 
Luigi. Escape? To even wish that, 

would spoil all. 
The dying is l)est part of it. -Too much 



Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of 

mine. 
To leave myself excuse for longer life : 
Was not life pressed down, running o'er 

with joj'. 
That I might finish with it ere my 

fellows 
Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer 

stay? 
I was put at the board-head, helped to 

all 
At first ; I rise up happy and content. 
God must be glad one loves his world so 

much. 
I can give news of earth to all the dead 
Who ask me : — last j'ear's sunsets, and 

great stars 
Which had a right to come first and see 

ebb 
The crimson wave that drifts the sun 

away — 
Those crescent moons with notched and 

burning rims 
That strengthened into sharp fire, and 

there stood, 
Impatient of the azure — and tliat day 
In March, a double rainbow stopped the 

storm — - 
May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer 

nights — 
Gone are they, but I have them in my 

soul ! 
Mother. (He will not go !) 
Luigi. You smile at me? 'T is true, — 
Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastli- 

ness, 
Envii-on my devotedness as quaintly 
As round about some antique altar 

wreathe 
The rose festoons, goats' horns, and 

oxen's skulls. 
Mother. See now : you reach the city, 

you must cross 
His threshold — how ? 

Luigi. Oh, that's if we conspired ! 

Then would come pains in plenty, as 

you guess — 
But guess not how the qualities most fit 
For such a?) office, qualities I have. 
Would little stead me, otherwise eni- 

ploj'ed. 
Yet prove of rarest merit only here. 
Every one knows for what his excellence 
Will serve, but no one ever will consider 
For what his worst defect might serve : 

and yet 
Have you not seen me range our coppice 

yonder 
In search of a distorted ash? — I find 



586 



BRITISH POETS 



The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect 

bow. 
Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precau- 

tioned man 
Arriving at the palace on niy errand ! 
No, no ! I have a handsome dress packed 

up- 
White satin here, to set off my black 

hair ; 
In I shall mai'ch — for you may watch 

your life out 
Behind thick walls, make friends tliere 

to betray you ; 
More than one man spoils everything. 

March straight — 
Only, no cluiusy knife to fumble for, 
Take the great gate, and walk (not 

saunter) on 
Through guards and guards — I have re- 
hearsed it all 
Inside the turret here a hundred times. 
Don't ask the way of whom you meet, 

observe ! 
But wliere they cluster thickliest is the 

door 
Of doors ; they'll let you pass — they'll 

never blab 
Each to tlie other, he knows not the 

favorite, 
Whence he is bound and what's his 

business now. 
Walk in — straight up to him ; you have 

no knife : 
Be prompt, how should he scream ? Tiien 

out with you ! 
Italy, Italy, my Italy ! 
You're free, you're free ! Oh mother, I 

could dream 
They got about me — Andrea from his 

exile, 
Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from 

his grave ! 
Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems 

this patriotism 
The easiest virtue for a selfish man 
To acquire : he loves himself — and next, 

the world — 
If he must love beyond, — but naught 

between : ["ay 

As a short-sighted man sees naught niid- 
His body and the sun above. But you 
Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient 
To my least wish, and running o'er with 

love : 
I could not call you cruel or unkind. 
Once more, your ground for killing him ! 

— then go ! 
Luigi. Now do you try me, or make 

sport of me ? 



How first the Austrians got these prov- 
inces . . . 

(If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon) 

— Never by conquest but by cunning, for 

That treatj' whereby . . . 
Mother. Well ! 

Luigi. (Sure, he's arrived, 

The tell-tale cuckoo : spring's his confi- 
dant, 

And he lets out her April purposes !) 

Or . . . better go at once to modern 
time. 

He has . . . they have ... in fact, I un- 
derstand 

But can't restate the matter : that's my 
boast : 

Otliers could reason it out to you, and 
prove 

Things they have made me feel. 
Mother. Why go to-night ? 

Morn's for adventure. Jupiter is now 

A morning-star. I cannot hear you, 
Luigi ! 
Luigi. " I am the bright and morning- 
star," saith God — 

And " to such an one I give the morning- 
star." 

The gift of the morning-star ! Have I 
God's gift 

Of the morning-star ! 
Mother. Chiara will love to see 

That Jupiter an evening-star next June. 
Luigi. True, mother. Well for those 
who live tlirough June ! 

Great noontides, thunder-storms, all 
glaring pomps 

That triumph at the heels of June the 
god 

Leading his revel through our leafy 
world. 

Yes, Cliiara will be here. 
Mother. In June : remember. 

Yourself appointed that month for her 
coming. 
Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ? 
Mother. TJie night wind. 

She must be grown — with her blue eyes 
upturned 

As if life were one long and sweet sur- 
prise : 

In June she comes. 
Luigi. We were to see together 

The Titian at Treviso. There, again 1 

[From ivithout is heard the voice of Pippa 
singing— 

A Iditg lived long ago, 

Li the morning of the world, 

When eartlb- was nigher heaven than now ; 



ROBERT BROWNING 



587 



And the king's locks curled. 

Disparting o'er a forehead full 

As the viilk-white space 'tvnxt horn and 

horn 
Of some sacrificial hull — 
Only calm as a babe neio-bom : 
For he ivas got to a sleepy mood. 
So safe from all decrepitude. 
Age witJi its bane, so sure gone by, 
( Tlie gods so loved him while he dreamed) 
That, having lived thus long, there seemed 
No need the king should ever die. 

Luigi. No need that sort of king should 
ever die ! 

Among the rocks his city rvas : 
Before his palace, in the sun, 
He sat to see Ms people pass, 
And judge them every one 
From its threshold of smooth stone. 
They haled him many a valley-thief 
Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief 
Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat, 
Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found 
On the sea-sand left aground ; 
And sometimes clung about his feet. 
With bleeding lip and burning cfieek, 
A icoman, bitterest wrong to speak 
Of one with sullen thickset brows : 
And sometimes from the prison-house 
The angry priests a pale wretch 

brought. 
Who through some chink had p»s//('d 

and pressed 
On knees and elbows, belly and breast, 
Worm-like into the temple, — caught 
He ivas by the very god, 
HHio ever in the darkness strode 
Backward and forward, keeping watch 
O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to 

catch ! 
These, all and- every one. 
The king judged, sitting in the sun. 

Luigi. That king should still judge, 
sitting in the sun ! 

His coimcillors, on left arid right. 
Looked anxious ujj. — but no surprise 
Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes 
Where the very blue had turned to 

white. 
'T is said, a Python scared one day 
The breathless city, till he came. 
With forky tongue and eyes on flame, 
Wliere the old king sat to judge alway ; 
But ivhen he saio the siveepy hair 
Girt with a crown of berries rare 
Which the god will hardly give to ivear 



To the maiden icho sjngeth, dancing 

bare 
Li the altar-smoke by the pine-torch 

liglits. 
At his u-ondrous forest rites, — 
Seeing this he did not dare 
Approach that threshold in the sun, 
Assault the old king smiling there. 
Such grace had kings tvhen the ivorld 

began ! 

PiPPA passes. 

Luigi. And such grace have they, 
now that tlie world ends ! 
The Pytlion at the city, on the tlirone, 
And brave men, God would crown for 

slaying liini. 
Lurk in by-corners lest tliey fall his 

prey." 
Are crowns yet to l)e won in this late 

time 
Wliich weakness makes me hesitate to 

reach ? 
"T is God's voice calls : how could I stay ? 

Farewell ! 

Talk by the ivay, ivhile Pippa is passing from the 
Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close 
to the Duomo S . Maria. Poor Girls sitting on 
the ste2JS. 

1st Girl. There goes a swallow to 
Venice — the stout seafarer ! 
Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish 

for wings. 
Let us all wish ; you, wish first ! 

2d Girl. I ? This sunset 

To finish, 

'Sd Girl. That old — somebody I 

know, 

Grayer and older than my grandfather, 

To give me the same treat he gave last 

week — 
Feeding me on his knee with fig- 
peckers, 
Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and 

mumbling 
The while some folly about how well I 

fare. 
Let sit and eat my supper quietly : 
Since had he not himself been late this 

morning 
Detained at — never mind wliere, — had 

he not . . . 
" Eh. baggage, had I not ! " — 
2d Girl. How she can lie 1 

3d Girl. Look there— by the nails ! 
2d Girl. What makes your fingers 

red ? 
3d Girl. Dipping them into wine to 
write bad words with 



588 



BRITISH POETS 



Oil tlie bright table : how he laughed ! 

1st Crirl. My turn. 

Spring 's come and summer 's coming. 

I would wear 
A long loose gown, down to the feet and 

hands, 
With plaits here, close about the throat, 

all day ; 
And all night lie, the cool long nights 

in bed ; 
And have new milk to drink, apples to 

eat, 
Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . . 

all, I sliould say, 
This is away in the fields — miles ! 

'M Girl. Say at once 

You "d be at home : she 'd always be at 

home ! 
Now conies the story of the farm among 
The cherry orchards, and how April 

snowed 
White blossoms on her as she ran. 

Why, fool. 
They 've rubbed the chalk-mark out, 

how tall you were. 
Twisted your starling's neck, broken 

his cage. 
Made a dung-hill of vour garden ! 

1st Girl. ' They destroy 

M}^ garden since I left them ? well — 

perhaps 
I would have done so : so I hope thej^ 

have ! 
A fig-tree curled out of our cottage 

wall ; 
They called it mine, I have forgotten 

why. 
It must have been there long ere I was 

born : 
Cric—cric — I think I hear the wasps 

o'erhead 
Pricking the papers strung to flutter 

there 
And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse 

long pai)ers. 
And tlie wasps eat them, prick them 

through and througli. 
'dd Girl. — How her mouth twitches ! 

Where was I ? — before 
She broke in with her wislies and long 

gowns 
And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — 

Oh, here ! 
This is my way : I answer eveiy one 
Who asks me why I make so much of 

him — 
(If you say " you love him" — straight 

" he '11 not be gulled ! ") 
" He that seduced me when I was a girl 



Thus high— had eyes like yours, or hair 

like yours, 
Brown, red, white," — as the case may 

be : that pleases. 
See how that beetle burnishes in the 

path ! 
There sparkles he along the dust : and 

there — 
Your journej^ to that maize tuft spoiled 

at least ! 
1st Girl. When I was young, they 

said if you killed one 
Of those sunshiny beetles, tliat his friend 
Up there, would shine no more that day 

nor next. 
2d Girl. When you were young ? nor 

are you young, that 's true. 
How your plump arms, that M^ere, have 

dropped away ! 
Why, I can span them. Cecco beats 

you still ? 
No matter, so jou keeji your curious 

luiir. [hair 

I wis! I tliey 'd find a way to dye our 
Yovir color — any lighter tint, indeed 
Than black : tlie men say the}" are sick 

of black. 
Black eyes, black hair ! 

ith. Girl. Sick of yours, like enough. 
Do j'ou pretend you ever tasted lam- 
preys 
And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace. 
Engaged (but there's no ti'ustiug him) 

to slice me 
Polenta with a knife that had cut up 
An ortolan. 

2d Girl. Why, there ! Is not that 

Pippa 
We are to talk to, under the window, — 

quick ! — 
AVhere the liglits are ? 
1st Girl. That she ? No, or she would 

sing. 
For the Intendant said . . . 

3d Girl. Oh, you sing first ! 

Then, if she listens and comes close . . . 

I "11 tell you,— 
Sing that song the young English noble 

made. 
Who took you for the purest of the pure. 
And meant to leave the world for you — 

what fun ! 
2d Girl. [Sings.] 

You 'II love me yet ! — and I can tarry 
Your love's x^rotracted groiving : 

June reared that hunch of flowers you 
carry. 
From seeds of April's sowing. 



Ml 



ROBERT BROWNING 



589 



I plant a heartfull uoic : some seed 

At leoftf y'.s sure to strike. 
And yield — what you 11 not x>luck indeed. 

Not love, but, may be, like. 

Yon 'II look at least on love's remains, 

A grave's one violet : 
Your look ? — that pays a thousand jxti us. 

What 's death ? You 11 love me yet ! 

Sd Girl. [To Pippa who approaches.] 
Oh, you may come closer— we shall not eat 
you ! Why, you seem the very person that 
"the great rich handsome Englishman has 
fallen so violently in love with. I '11 tell 
you all about it. 

IV. NIGHT 

Inside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, 
dismissing his Attendants. 

Monsignor. Thanks, friends, many 
thanks ! I chiefly desire life now, that 1 
may recompense every one of you. • Most I 
know something of already. What, a re- 
past prepared ? Bencdicto hcncdlcatur . . . 
ugh, ugh ! Where was I ? Oh, as you were 
remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very 
unlike winter-weather : but I am a Sicilian, 
you know, and shiver in your Julys here. 
To be sure, when 't was full summer at 
Messina, as we priests used to cross in pro- 
cession the great square on Assumption 
Day, you might see our thickest yellow 
tfip^ers twist suddenly in two, each like a 
falling star, or sink down on themselves in 
a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go ! 
[To the Intendant.] Not you, Ugo ! \The 
others leave the apartment.] I have long 
wanted to converse with you, Ugo. 

Intendiuit. Uguccio — 

Man 'guccio Stefani, man ! of As- 

coli, Pernio and Fossombruno ; — what I do 
need instructing about, are these accounts 
of your administration of my poor brother's 
affairs. Ugh ! I shall never get through a 
third part of your accounts ; take some of 
these dainties before we attempt it, how- 
ever. Are you bashful to that degree ? 
For me, a crust and water suffice. 

Intcn. Do you choose this especial night 
to question me ? 

Mon. This night, Ugo. You have man- 
aged my late brother's affairs since the 
death of our elder brother : fourteen years 
and a month, all but three days. On the 
Third of December, I And him . . . 

Intcn. If you have so intimate an ac- 
quaintance with your brother's affairs, you 
will be tender of turning so far back : they 
will hardly bear looking into, so far back.' 

Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but 
disappointments here below ! I remarked 
a considerable payment made to yourself 



* on this Third of December. Talk of disap- 
pointments ! There was a young fellow 
here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my ut- 
most to advance, that the Church might be 
a gainer by us both : he was going on hope- 
fully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to 
me some marvellous change that has hap- 
pened in his notions of Art. Here's his 
letter, — " He never had a clearly conceived 
Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet 
since his hand could manage a chisel, he has 
practised expressing other men's Ideals ; 
and, in the very perfection he has attained 
to, he foresees an ultimate failure : his un- 
conscious hand will pursue its prescribed 
course of old years, and will reproduce with 
a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the 
novel one appear never so palpably to his 
spirit. There is but one method of escape : 
confiding the virgin type to as chaste a 
hand, he will turn painter instead of sculp- 
tor, and paint, not carve, its characteris- 
tics," — strike out, I dare say, a school like 
Correggio : how think you, Ugo ? 

Intcn. Is Correggio a painter ? 

Mon. Foolish Jules ! and yet, after all, 
why foolish •' He may— probably will— fail 
egregiously ; but if there should arise a 
new painter, will it not be in some such 
way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits 
who have conceived and perfected an Ideal 
through some other channel), transferring 
it to this, and escaping our conventional 
roads by pure ignorance of them ; eh, Ugo ? 
If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ? 

Intcn. Sir, I can submit no longer to 
this course of yours. First, you select the 
group of which I formed one,— next y(ju 
thin it gradually, — always retaining me 
Avith your smile, — and so do you proceed 
till you have fairly got me alone witli you 
between four stone walls. And now then y 
Let this farce, this chatter end now : what 
is it you want with me y 

Mon. Ugo ! 

Intcn.. From the instant you arrived, I 
felt your smile on me as you questioned me 
about this and the other article in those 
papers — why your brother should have 
given me this villa, that poderc, — and your 
nod at the end meant, — what ? 

3Ion. Possibly that I wished for no loud 
talk here. If once j'ou set me coughing, 
Ugo 1— 

Intoi. I have your brother's hand and 
seal to all I possess : now ask me what for ! 
what service I did him — ask me ! 

Mnn. 1 would better not: I should rip 
up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's 
weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli, 
('which, I forgot to observe, is your true 
name, ) was the interdict ever taken off you 
for robbing that church at Cesena ? 

Intcn. No, nor needs be : for when I 
murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, 
for him . . . 






59° 



BRITISH POETS 



Man. Ah, he employed you hi that busi- 
ness, did he ? Well, I must let you keep, 
as j'ou say, this villa and that podcre, for 
fear the world should find out my relations 
were of so indifferent a stamp ? Maffeo. 
my family is the oldest in Messina, and 
century after century have my progenitors 
gone on polluting themselves with every 
wickedness under heaven : my own father 
. . . rest his soul I— I have, I know, a chapel 
to support that it may rest : my dear two 
dead brothers were, — what you know toler- 
ably well ; I, the youngest, might have 
rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but 
from my boyhood I came out from among 
them, and so am not partaker of their 
plagues. My glory springs from another 
source; or if from this, by contrast only, — 
for I, the bishop, am the brother of your 
employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of 
their wrong, however; so far as my brother's 
ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop 
the consequences of his crime: and not one 
srAdo shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword 
we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd 
knaves pick up and commit murders with; 
what opportunities the virtuous forego, 
the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure 
myself apart from other considerations, my 
food would be millet-cake, my dress sack- 
cloth, and my couch straw,— am I there- 
fore to let you, the off-scouring of the earth, 
seduce the poor and ignorant by appro- 
priating a pomp these will be sure to think 
lessens the abominations so unaccountably 
and exclusively associated with it? Must I 
let villas and podcri go to you, a murderer 
and thief, that you may beget by means of 
them other murderers and thieves? No— 
if my cough would but allow me to speak ! 

hitcn. What am I to expect ? You are 
going to punish me ? 

Mo)i. Must punish you, Maffeo. I can- 
not afford to cast away a chance. I have 
whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only 
a month or two of life to do it in. How 
should I dare to say . , . 

Tnten. "Forgive us our trespasses"? 

Mon. My friend, it is because I avow 
myself a very worm, sinful beyond mea- 
sure, that 1 reject a line of conduct you 
would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, 
as it were, a-pardoning ?— I ?— who have no 
symptom of reason to assume that aught 
less than my strenuousest efforts will keep 
myself out of mortal sin, much less keep 
others out. No : I do trespass, but will not 
double that by allowing you to trespass. 

Intcn. And suppose the villas are not 
your bi'other's to give, nor yours to take ? 
Oh, you are hasty enough just now ! 

Mon. 1, 2 — No 3 ! — ay, can you read the 
substance of a letter. No ;s, I have received 
from Rome ? It is precisely on tlie ground 
there mentioned, of the suspicion I have 
that a certain child of my late elder brother, 



who would have succeeded to his estates, 
was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, 
at the instigation of my late younger 
brother — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not 
merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign 
punishment, but the taking all pains, as 
guardian of the infant's heritage for the 
Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, how- 
soever, whensoever, and wheresoever. 
While you are now gnawing those fingers, 
the police are engaged in sealing up your 
papers, Maffeo, and the mei-e raising my 
voice brings my people from the next room 
to dispose of yourself. But I want you to 
confess quietly, and save me raising my 
voice. Why, man, do I not know the old 
story ? The heir between the succeeding 
heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, 
and their complot's effect, and the life of 
fear and bribes and ominous smiling si- 
lence ? Did you throttle or stab my brother's 
infant ? Come now ! 

I)ttcn. So old a story, and tell it no bet- 
ter ? When did such an instrument ever 
produce such an effect ? Either the child 
smiles in his face ; or, most likelj', he is not 
fool enough to put himself in the employer's 
power so thoroughly : the child is always 
ready to produce— as you say — howsoever, 
wheresover, and whensoever. 

Mon. Liar ! 

Intcn. Strike me ? Ah, so might a father 
chastise ! I shall sleep soundly to-night at 
least, though the gallows await me to-mor- 
row ; for what a life did I lead ! Carlo of 
Cesena reminds me of his connivance, 
every time I pay his annuity ; which hap- 
pens commonly thrice a year. If I remon- 
strate, he will confess all to the good bishop 
— you ! 

3[on. I see through the trick, caitiff ! I 
would you spoke truth for once. All shall 
be sifted, however— seven times sifted. 

Intcn. And how my absurd riches en- 
cumbered me ! I dared not lay claim to 
above half of my possessions. Let me l)ut 
once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and 
die ! 

Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like 
your brother I frightened to death : let us 
understand one another. Sir, I will make 
away with her for you — the girl — here close 
at hand ; not the stupid obvious kind of 
killing ; do not speak — know nothing other 
nor of me ! I see her every day — saw her 
this morning : of course there is to be no 
killing ; but at Rome the com-tesans perish 
off every three years, and I can entice her 
thither— have indeed begun operations al- 
ready. There is a certain lusty blue-eyed 
floriii-complexioned English knave, I and 
the Police employ occasionally. You as- 
sent, I perceive — no, that's not it — assent 
I do not say— but you will let me convei-t 
my present havings and holdings into cash, 
and give me time to cross the Alps ? 'T is 



I 



ROBERT BROWNING 



591 



but a little black-eyed pretty singing Fe- 
llppa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept 
her out of harm's way up to this present ; 
for I always intended to make your life a 
plague to you with her. 'T is as well settled 
once and forever. Some women I have 
procured will pass Bluphocks, my hand- 
some scoundrel, off for somebody ; and 
once Pippa entangled ! — you conceive ? 
Through her singing ? Is it a bargain ? 

[From tvithout is heard the voice of Pippa 
singing — 

. Overhead the tree-tops meet. 

Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's 

feet ; 
Tliere teas naught above me, naught 

beloiv, 
My childhood had not learned to know : 
For, what are the voices of birds 
— Ah, and of beasts, but icords, our 

words. 
Only so much more sweet f 
The knowledge of that with my life be- 
gun. 
But I had so near made out the sun. 
And counted your stars, the seven and 

one. 
Like the fingers of my hand : 
Nay, I could all but understand 
Wliei-efore through heaven tlie lohite 

moon ranges; 
And just tohen out of her soft fifty 

changes 
No unfamiliar face might over-look 

me — 
Suddenly Qod took me. 

[Pippa passes. 

Mon. [Sprinahuj up.] My people— one 
and all— within there ! Gag this villain- 
tie him hand and foot ! He dares ... I 
know not half he dares — but remove him — 
quick! Miserere mci, Dominc ! Quick, 
I say ! 

Pippa's Chamber again. She enters it. 

The bee with his comb, 

The mouse at her draj'', 

The grub in his tomb. 

While winter away ; 

But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and 

lob- worm, I pray, 
How fare they ? 
Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my 

Zanze ! 
"Feast upon lampreys, quaff Bre- 

ganze " — 
The summer of life so easy to spend. 
And care for to-morrow so soon put 

away ! 



But winter hastens at summer's end. 
And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, 

I pray, 
How fare they ? 
No bidding me then to . . . what did 

Zanze say ? 
" Pare your nails pearl wise, get your 

small feet shoes 
More like" . . . ( wliat said slie?)— "and 

less like canoes ! " 
How pert that girl was ! — would I be 

those pert 
Impudent staring women ! It had done 

me. 
However, surely no such mighty hurt 
To learn his name who passed that jest 

upon me : 
No foreigner, that I can recollect, 
Came, as siie says, a month since, to in- 
spect 
Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and 

thick rings 
Of raw-silk-colored hair, at all events. 
Well, if old Luca keep liis good intents, 
We shall do better, see what next year 

brings ! 
I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not api:>ear 
More destitute tlian you perhaps next 

year ! 
Blupli . . . something ! I had caught 

the uncouth name 
But for Monsignor's people's sudden 

clatter 
Above us — bound to spoil such idle 

chatter 
As ouis : it were indeed a serious matter 
If silly talk like ours slioulil put to shame 
The pious man, the man devoid of blame, 
The ... ah but — all but. all the same, 
No mere mortal has a right 
To cany that exalted air ; 
Best peojile are not angels quite : 
While — not the worst of people's doings 

scare [spare I 

The devil ; so there's that proud look to 

Which is mere counsel to myself, 

mind ! for 
I have just been the holy Monsignor : 
And I was you, too, Luigi's gentle 

mother. 
And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi 

started 
Out of the turret — doubtlessly departed 
On some good errand or another, 
For he passed just now in a traveller's 

trim. 
And the sullen company that prowled 
About his path, I noticed, scowled 
As if they had lost a prey in him. 



59^ 



BRITISH POETS 



And I was Jules the sculptoi''s bride, 

And I was Ottima beside, 

And now what am I ? — tired of fooling. 

Day for folly, night for schooling ! 

New year's day is over and spent. 

Ill or well, I must be content. 

Even my lily's asleep. I vow : 
Wake up — here's a friend I've plucked 

you ! 
Call this flower a heart's-ease now ! 
Sometliing rare, let me instruct you. 
Is this, with petals triply swollen. 
Tliree times spotted, thrice the pollen ; 
While the leaves and parts that witness 
Old proportions and their fitness. 
Here remain unchanged, unmoved now ; 
Call this pampered thing improved now ! 
Suppose there's a king of the flowers 
And a girl-show held in his bovvers — 
" Look ye, buds, this growth of ours." 
Says he. " Zanze from the Brenta, 
I have made her gorge polenta 
Till both cheeks are near as bouncing 
As her . . . name tliere's no pronounc- 
ing ! 
See this heightened color too. 
For she swilled Breganze wine 
Till her nose turned deep carmine ; 
'T was but white when wild she grew. 
And only by this Zanze 's ej'es 
Of which we could not change the size, 
The magnitude of all acliieved 
Otlierwise, may be perceived." 

Oil what a drear dark close to my poor 
day ! 

How could that red sun drop in that 
black cloud ? 

Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, 

Dispensed with, tnever more to be al- 
lowed ! 

Day's turn is over, now arrives the 
night's. 

Oh lark, be day's apostle 

To mavis, merle and throstle. 

Bid them their betters jostle 

From day and its delights ! 

But at night, brother owlet, over the 
woods. 

Toll tlie world to thy chantry ; 

Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods 

Full complines with gallantr}^ : 

Then, owls and bats, 

Cowls and twats. 

Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, 

Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry ! 

[After she tins begun to nndrexs herself. 

Now, one thing I sliould like to really 
know : 



How near I ever might approach all 

these 
I only fancied being, this long day : 
— Approacli, I mean, so as to toucli them, 

so 
As to . . . in some way . . . move them — 

if you please. 
Do good or evil to them somesliglit way. 
For instance, if I wind 
Silk to morrow, my silk may bind 

[Sitting on the bedside 
And border Ottima's cloak's hem. 
Ah me, and my important part with 

them . 
This morning's hymn half pi'omised 

when I rose ! 
True in some sense or other, I .suppose. 

[As she lies doini. 
God bless nie ! I can pray no more to- 
night. 
No doubt, some way or other, hymns say 

right. 

^4// service ranks the same with God — 
With God. ichosejjiq'tpcfs, best and ivorst. 
Are ice ;■ there is no last nor Urst. 

[She sleeps. 

1841. 



J 



CAVALIER TUNES 



I. MARCHING .\LONG 



Kentish Sir B^-ng stood for his King. 
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament 

swing: 
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
And see tlie rogues flourish and honest 

folk droop. 
Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 

song. 

God for King Charles ! Pyra and such 

carles 
To the Devil that jarompts 'em their 

treasonous paries ! 
Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. 
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor 

sup 
Till you 're— - 
Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, 
singing this song. 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' 

knell. 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes. and young 

Harrv as well ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



593 



England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 
Kentisli and loyalists, keep we not here, 
Chorus. — JNIarching along, fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
ing this song ? 

Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and 

his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent 

carles ! 
Hold hy the right, you double your 

might ; 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for 
the fight. 
Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
ing tliis song ! 

' II. GIVE A ROUSE 

King Charles, and who '11 do him right 

now '? 
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight 

now ? 
Give a i-ouse : here 's, in hell's despite 

now. 
King Charles ! 

Who gave me the goods that went since ? 

Who raised me the house that sank once ? 

Who lielped me to gold I spent since ? 

Wlio found me in wine you drank once? 

Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do 

him right now ? 

King Charles, and who 's ripe 

for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here 's, in hell's 

despite now. 
King Charles ! 

To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
B3' the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else. 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 
Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do 
him right now ? 
King Charles, and who 's ripe 

for fight now ? 
Give a rovise : here 's, in hell's 

despite now, 
King Charles ! 



4 



III. boot and saddle 



Boot, saddle, to horse and away ! 
Rescue my castle before tlie hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 
Chorus. — Boot, sadille, to horse and 
away ! 

38 



Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd 

say ; 
Many 's the friend there, will listen and 

pray 
'"God's luck to gallants that strike up 
the lay — 
Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away ! " 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay. 
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round- 
heads' array : 
Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by 
my fay. 
Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away ! " 

Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, honest 

and gay, 
Laughs when vou talk of surrendering, 

" Nay ! 
I've better counsellors ; what counsel 
they ? 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away ! " 1843. 

THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD- 
EL-KADR 

As I ride, as I ride. 

With a full heart for my guide, 

So its tide rocks my side, 

As I ride, as I ride. 

That, as I were double-eyed. 

He, in whom our Tribes confide, 

Is descried, ways untried, 

As I ride, as I ride. 

As I ride, as I ride 

To our Chief and his Allied, 

Who dares chide nry heart's pride 

As I ride, as I ride ? 

Or are witnesses denied — 

Through the desert waste and wide 

Do I glide unespied 

As I ride, as I ride? 

As I ride, as I ride. 

When an inner voice has cried, 

The sands slide, nor abide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

O'er each visioned homicide 

That came vaunting (has he lied ?) 

To reside — where he died. 

As I ride, as I ride. 

As I ride, as I ride. 

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, 

Yet his hide, streaked and pied. 



/ 



594 



BRITISH POETS 



As I ride, as I ride, 

Shows wliere sweat has sprung and dried, 

— Zebra-footed, ostrich-thiglied — 

How has vied stride with stride 

As I ride, as I ride ! 

As I ride, as I ride. 

Could I loose what Fate has tied, 

Ere I pried, she should hide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

All tlmfs meant me — satisfied 

Wlien tlie Prophet and the Bride 

Stop veins I'd liave subside 

As I ride, as I ride ! 1842. 

CRISTINA 

She should never have looked at me 

If she meant I should not love her ! 
There are plenty . . . men you call such, 

I suppose . . . she may discover 
All her soul to. if she pleases, 

And yet leave much as she found 
them : 
But I'm not so, and she knew it 

When she fixed me, glancing round 
them. 

What? To fix me thus meant nothing? 

But I can't tell (there 's my weakness) 
What her look said ! — no vile cant, sure. 

About •' need to strew the bleakness 
Of some lone shore witli its pearl-seed. 

That the sea feels" — no "strange 
yearning 
That such souls have, most to lavish 

Where there's chance of least return- 



Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! 

But not quite so .sunk that moments. 
Sure though seldom, are denied us. 

When the spirit's true endowments 
Stand out plainly from its false ones, 

And apprise it if pursuing 
Or the rigiit way or the wrong way. 

To its triumph or undoing. 

There are flashes struck from midnights, 

There are tire -flames noondays kindle, 
Whereby piled-up honors perish, 

Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle. 
While just this or that poor impvilse. 

Which for once had play unstified. 
Seems the sole work of a lifetime, 

That away the rest have trifled. 

Doi^bt you if, in some such moment. 

As slie fixed me, she felt clearly, 
Ages past the soul existed, 



Here an age 't is resting merely, 
And hence fleets again for ages, 

While the true end, sole and single. 
It stops here for is, this love-way, 

With some other soul to mingle ? 

Else it loses what it lived for, 

And eternally must lose it ; 
Better ends may be in prospect, 

Deeper blisses (if you clioose it). 
But this life's end and this love-bliss 

Have been lost here. Doubt you 
whether 
This she, feltTas, looking at me, 

Mine and her souls rushed together? 

Oh, observe ! Of course, next moment, 

The world's honors in derision, 
Trampled out tlie light forever : 

Never fear but thei'e's provision 
Of the devil's to quench knowledge 

Lest we walk the earth in rapture ! 
— Making those who catch God's secret 

Just so much more prize their capture ! 

Sucli am I ; the secret 's mine now ! 

She has lost me, I have gained her ; 
Her soul's mine : and thus, grown per- 
fect, 

I shall pass my life's remainder. 
Life mil just hold out the proving 

Botli our powers, alone and blended : 
And then come the next life quickly ! 

This world's use will have been ended. 

1842. 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

You know, we French stormed Ratis- 
bon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound. Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its juind. 

Just as perhaps he mused " Mj' plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes tliere 
flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached tiie mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
And held himself erect 



ROBERT BROWNING 



595 



By just liis horse's mane, a boj^ : 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's 
grace 

We 've got )^ou Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal "s in the market-place. 

And you '11 be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; 
his plans 

Soared up again like flre. 

The chief's ej^e flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes ; 
"You're wounded!" ••Nay," the sol- 
dier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I 'm killed. Sire ! " And his chief be- 
side, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 1842. 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the 

wall, 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a w^onder, now : Fra Pan- 

dolf's hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she 

stands. 
Will 't please j^ou sit and look at lier ? I 

said 
"Fra Pandolf " by design, for never 

read 
Strangers like j^ou that pictured coun- 
tenance. 
The depth and passion of its earnest 

glance, 
But to myself they tui-ned (since none 

puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
And seemed as they would ask me, if 

they durst, 
How such a glance came there ; so, not 

the first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't 

was not 
Her husband's presence only, called that 

spot 



Of joy intotiie Duciiess' cheek : perhaps 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, '• Her man- 
tle laps 
Over my lady's wrist too nuich," or 

•• Paint 
Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
Half-flush that dies along her throat : " 

such stutt' 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause 

enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon 

made glad. 
Too easily impressed : she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went every- 
where. 
Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her 

breast, • 

The dropping of the daylight in the 

West, 
The bough of cherries some officious 

fool 
Broke in the orchard for her, the wliite 

mule 
She rode with round the terrace — all and 

each 
Would draw from her alike the approv- 
ing speech, 
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — 

good ! but thanked 
Somehow — I know not how — as if she 

ranked 
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old 

name . 

With anybody's gift. / Who 'd stoop to 

blame 
This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 
In speech — (which I have not) — to make 

your will 
Quite clear to such an one, and say, 

' ' Just this 
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you 

miss. 
Or there exceed the mark " — and if she 

let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
Her wits to j^ours, forsooth, and made 

excuse, 
— E'en then would be some stooping ; 

and I choose 
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no 

doubt. 
Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed 

without 
Much the same smile? This grew ; I 

gave commands ; 
Tlien all smiles stopped together. There 

she stands ['11 meet 

As 'f alive. Will 't please you rise ? We 



59^ 



BRITISH POETS 



The company below, then. I repeat, 
Tlie Count your master's known munifi- 
cence 
Is ample u arrant that no just pretence 
Of mine for dowry will be tlisallowed ; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I 

avowed 
At starting, is mj- object. Nay, we '11 go 
Together down. sir. Notice Neptune, 

tliougli. 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 
Whicli Clausof Innsbruck cast in bronze 
forme! 1842. 

IN A GONDOLA 
He sings 

I SEND my lieart up to tliee. all my iieart 

In this my singing. 
For the stars help me, and the sea bears 
part ; 
The very night is clinging 
Closer to Venice' streets to leave one 
space 
Above me. whence thy face 
May light my joyous heart to thee its 
dwelling place. 

She speaks 

Say after me, and try to say 
My very words, as if each word 
Came from you of your own accord, 
In your own voice, in your own way : 
" This woman's heart and soul and brain 
Are mine as much as this gold chain 
She bids me wear; whicli" (say again) 
" I choose to make by cherishing 
A precious thing, or choose to fling 
Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 
And yet once more say ... no word 

m( ne ! 
Since words are onlj^ words. Give o'er ! 

Unless you call me. all the same, 

Familiarly by my pet name, 

Which if the Tlu'ee should hear j'ou call, 

And me reply to, would proclaim 

At once our secret to them all. 

Ask of me, too, command me, blame, — 

Do, break down the partition-wall 

'T wixt us, the daylight world beholds 

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! 

What's left but — all of me to take ? 

I am the Three's : prevent them, slake 

Your tliirst ! 'T is said, tlie Arab sage, 

In practising with gems, can loose 

Their subtle spirit in his cruce 

And leave but ashes : so. sweet mage. 



Leave them my ashes when thy use 
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! 

He sings 

Past we glide, and past, and past ! 

Whafs that poor Agnese doing 
Where they make the shutters fast? 

Gray Zanobi 's just a-wooing 
To his couch the purchased bride : 

Past we glide ! 

Past we glide, and past, and past! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring- 
Like a beacon to the blast ? 

Guests by hundreds, )iot one caring 
If the dear host's neck were wried : 

Past we glide ! 

She sings 

The moth's kiss, first ! 

Kiss ine as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve. 

How my face, your flower, had piu'sed 

Its petals up; .so, here and tliere 

You brush it, till I grow awaie 

Who wants nie, and wide ope I burst. 

The bee's kiss, now ! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday. 
A bud that dares not disallow 
The claim, so all is renderetl up. 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 

He siiigs 

What are we two ? 

I am a Jew, 

And carrj' thee, farther than friends 

can pursue. 
To a feast of our tribe ; 
AVhere they need thee to bribe 
The devil that blasts them unless he 

imbibe 
Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever ! 

And now. 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 

Say again, what we are? 

Tiie sjirite of a star, 

I lure thee above where the destinies bar 

]\Iy plumes their full i>lay 

Till a ruddier ray 

Than my pale one announce there is 

withering away 
Some . . . Scatter the vision forever! 

And now. 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



597 



He unifies 

Oh, vvhicli were l)est, to rouin or rest? 
The land's lai) or the water's breast ? 
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 
Or swim in lucid shallows just 
Eluding water-lily leaves. 
Au inch from Death's black fingers, 

tln'ust 
To lock you, whom release he must : 
Which life were best on Summer eves? 

He S2ieaks. musing 

Lie back ; could thought of mine im- 

|)r<)ve you ? 
From this shoulder let there spring 
A wing : from this, another wing : 
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move 

you ! 
Snt)w wliite must they spring, to blend 
With your flesh, but I intend 
Tliey shall deepen to the end, 
Broader, into burning gold, 
Till both wings crescent- wise enfold 
Your perfect self, from 'neatli your feet 
To o'er your head, where, lo. they meet 
As if a million sword-blades hurled 
Defiance from you to the world ! 

Rescue me thou, the only real ! 
And scare away this mad ideal 
Tiiat came, nor motions to dejiart ! 
Thanks ! N6w, stay ever as thou art ! 

Still he muses 

What if the Three should catch at last 
Thy serenader? While there 's cast 
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
Gian pinions me. Himself has past 
His stNdet through my back ; I reel ; 
And ... is it thou I feel ? 

Tliey trail me, these tln-ee godless knaves, 
Past every church that saints and saves. 
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 
By Lido's wet accursed graves. 
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 
And ... on thy breast I sink ! 

She replies, musing. 

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow- 
deep. 

As I do : thus : were death so unlike 
sleep. 

Caught tliis way? Death 's to fear from 
flame or steel. 

Or poison doubtless ; but from water — 
feel! 



Go find the bottom ! Would jou stay 
me ? There ! [grass 

Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon- 
To plait in where tiie foolish jewel was. 
I flung away : since you have praised 

my hair, 
'T is proper to be choice in what 1 wear. 

He speaks 

Row home ? must we row home ? Too 

surely 
Know I where its front 's demurely 
Over the Giudecca piled ; 
Window just with window mating, 
Door on door exactly waiting. 
All 's the set face of a cliild : 
But behind it. where 's a trace 
Of the staidness and reserve. 
And formal lines without a curve, 
In the same child's i)laying-f;tce? 
No two windows look one way 
O'er the small sea-water thre;i,d 
Below them. Ah, the autunm day 
I, passing, saw you overhead ! 
First, out a cloud of curtain blew. 
Then a sweet cry, and last came you — 
To catch your lory that must needs 
Escape just then, of all times then. 
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds. 
And make me happiest of men. 
I scarce could breathe to see you reach 
So far back o'er tlie balcony 
To catch him ere he climbed too high 
Above you in the Smyrna peach. 
That quick the round smooth cord of 

gold. 
Tills coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 
Fell down jou like a gorgeous snake 
The Roman girls were wont, of old. 
When Rome tiiere was, for coolness' sake 
To let lie curling o'er tlieir bosoms. 
Dear lory, may his beak retain 
Ever its delicate rose stain 
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 
Had marked their thief to know again ! 

Stay longer yet, for others' sake 
Than mine ! What should your cham- 
ber do ? 
— With all-its rarities that ache 
Li silence while day lasts, but wake 
At night-time and their life renew. 
Suspended just to pleasure you 
Who brought against their will together 
These objects, and. wliile day lasts, 

weave 
Aroinul them such a magic tether 
That dumb they look : your harp, be- 
lieve. 



598 



BRITISH POETS 



With all the sensitive tight strings 
Which dare not speak, now to itself 
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf 

Went in and out the chords, his wings 

Make murmur wlieresoe'er the}- graze. 

As an angel may, between the maze 

Of midnight i)aiace-pillars, on 

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone 

Tlnough guilty glorious Babylon. 

And while sucli murmurs flow, the 

nymph 
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell 
As the dry limpet for the lympli 
Come with a tune lie knows so well. 
And how your statues' hearts must 

swell ! 
And how j-our pictures must descend 
To see each other, friend with friend ! 
Oh, could you take tliem by surprise, 
You'd find Schidone's eager Duke 
Doing the quaintest courtesies 
To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke ! 
And. deeper into her rock den, 
Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 
You'd find retreated from the ken 
Of that robe-l counsel-keeping Ser — 
As if tlie Tizian thinks of her. 
And is not. rather, gravely bent 
On seeing for liimself what toys 
Are tliese, his progeny invent. 
What litter now the board employs 
Whereon he signed a document 
Tliat got him nmrdered ! Each enjoys 
Its night so well, you cannot break 
The si)ort up, so, indeed must make 
More stay with me, for otliers' sake. 

She sjyeaks 

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 
Is used to tie the jasmine back 
That overfloods my room with sweets. 
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 
My Zanze ! If the ribbon's black. 
Tlie Three are watching : keep away ! 

Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe 

A mesh of water-weeds al)out 

Its prow, as if lie unaware 

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot 

stair ! 
That I may throw a paper out 
As 3^ou and he go underneath. 

There's Zanze's vigilant taper ; safe are 
we. [me ? 

Onlj' one minute more to-night with 
Resume your past self of a month ago ! 
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 



The lady with the colder breast than 

snow. 
Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch 

my hand 
]\tore than I touch yours when I step to 

land. 
And say, " All thanks, Siora ! " — 

Heart to heart 
And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere 

we part, 
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine 

tliou art ! 

[He is surprised, and stabbed. 
It was ordained to be .so, sweet ! — and 

best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon 

thy breast. 
Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! 

Care 
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do 

not scorn 
To death. Ijecause they never lived : but I 
Have lived indeed, and .so — (yet one 

more kiss) — can die ! 1842 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

A child's story 

(Written for, nvd inscribed to, W. M. 
the Younger.) * 



Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ;. 
Tlie rjver Weser, deep and wide. 
Waslies its wall on tlie soutliern sid< 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But, wlien begins my dittv'. 

Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 



Rats! 
They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in tlae cradles, 
And ate tlie cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the .soup from the cooks' 
own ladles. 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats 

By drowning their speaking 

With slirieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

> The son of William Macready, the famous 
actor. 



{ 



ROBERT BROWNING 



599 



At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flonking : 
" 'T is clear," cried they, " our Mayor 's 
a noddy ; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with 

ermine 
For dolts tliat can't or won't determine 
Wliat 's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because j^ou 're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a rack- 
ing 
To find the remedy we 're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you pack- 
ing ! " 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked witli a mighty consternation. 



An hour they sat in council ; 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
" For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown 
sell, 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 
It "s easj' to bid one rack one's brain — 
I 'm sure my poor head aches again. 
I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber-door but a gentle tap ? 
" Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's 

that ? " 
(With the Corporation as he sat. 
Looking little though wondrous fat ; 
Nor brighter was liis eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster. 
Save wlien at noon his paunch grew 

mutinous 
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) 
" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 
An}-thing like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 



" Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking 

_ bigger : 
And in did come the strangest figure ! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red. 
And he himself was tall and thin. 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin. 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
But lips where smiles went out and in ; 
There was no guessing his kith and kin 
And nobody could enough admire 



Tlie tall man and his (piaint attire. 

Quoth one : " It 's as my great-grand- 
sire. 

Starting up at tlie Trnini) of Doom's 
tone. 

Had walked this way from his painted 
tombstone ! " 

VI 

He advanced to the council-table : 
And, " Please your honors," said he, 

" I 'm able. 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep or swim or fly or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm. 
The mole and toad and newt and viper ; 
And people call me the Pied Piper." 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the self-same 

check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 

straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
" Yet," said he, '" poor piper as I am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham. 
Last June, from his huge swarms of 

gnats ; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: 
And as for what your brain bewilders, 
If I can rid your town of rnts 
Will 3'ou give mea thousand guilders ? " 
"One? fifty thousand!" — was the ex- 
clamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corpora- 
tion. 



Into the street the Piper stepped. 

Smiling first a little smile. 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In liis quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept. 
To blow the pipe his lii)s he wrinkled. 
And green and blue his sharp eyes 

twinkled. 
Like a candle-flame where salt is 

sprinkled ; 
And ere tliree shrill notes the pipe 

uttei-ed. 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 



6oo 



BRITISH POETS 



And the grumbling grew to a mighty 

rumbling ; 
And out of the houses the rats came 

tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny 

rats. 
Brown rats, black rats, graj' rats, tawny 

rats. 
Grave old plodders, gay young f riskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking wliiskers, 

Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives^ 
Followed tlie Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advanc- 

And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all plunged and perished ! 
— Save one who. stout as Julius Caesar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he, tlie manuscript he cherished) 
To Rat-land home his commentary : 
Which was. " At the first shrill notes of 

the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
Into a cider-press's gripe : 
And a moving away of i^ickle-tub-boards. 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup- 
boards. 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil- 
flasks. 
And a breaking tlie hoops of butter- 
casks : 
And it seemed as if a voice 
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) called out, ' Oh rats, re- 
joice ! 
The world is grown to one vast dry- 
saltery ! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your 

nuncheon, 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! ' 
And just as a bulky sugar puncheon. 
All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious scarce an incli before me. 
Just as methought it said, ' Come, bore 

me ! ' 
— I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 



You should have heard the Hamelin 
people 

Ringing the bells till tliey rocked tlie 
steeple. 

"Go." cried the Mayor, "and get long- 
poles, [holes ! 

Poke out the nests and block up the 



Consult witli carpenters and builders. 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the 

face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 
Witli a. " First, if you please, my thou- 
sand guilders ! " 



A thousand guilders ! Tlie Mayor looked 

blue ; 
So did the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havoc 
Witli Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, 

Hock ; 
And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar's biggest b\itt\vith Rhenish. 
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gypsy coat of red and 3'ellow ! 
" Beside,"' quoth the Mayor with a 

knowing wink, 
"Our business was done at the river's 

brink ; 
We saw witli our eyes the vermin .sink. 
And what 's dead can't come to life, I 

think. 
So. friend, we 're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something 

for drink, 
And a matter of money to put in your 

poke ; 
But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you veiy well know, was in 

joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 



The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 
" No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! 
I 've promised to visit by dinner time 
Bagdad, and accept the prime 
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he 's 

rich in. 
For having left, in the Calipli's kitchen, 
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor : 
With liim I proved no bargain-driver. 
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 
And folks wlio put me in a passion 
May find me pipe after another fashion." 

XI 

" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think 

I brook 
Being worse treated than a Cook? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 
Blow j^our pipe there till you l)urst I " 



I 



ROBERT BROWNING 



6oi 



Once more he stepped iuto the sti'eet, 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 

cane ; 
And ere he blew three notes (such 

sweet 
Soft notes as j^et musician's cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like a 

bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching 

and hustling ; 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 

clattering. 
Little hands clapping and little tongues 

chattering, 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when 

barley is scattering. 
Out came the children running. 
All the little boys and girls, 
Witli rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and 

laughter. 



The Mayor was dumb, and the Council 

stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of 

wood. 
Unable to move a step, or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by, 
— Could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
But how the Mayor was on tiie rack. 
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. 
As the Piper turned from tlie High Street 
To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daugh- 
ters ! 
However, he turned from South to West, 
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad- 
dressed , 
And after hini tliQ children pressed ; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 
" He never can cross tliat mighty top ! 
He 's forced to let the piping drop, 
And we shall see our children stop ! " 
When, lo, as they reached the mountain- 
side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide. 
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
And the Piper advanced and the cliildren 

followed. 
And when all were in to the very last. 
The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 



Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 
And could not dance the whole of the 

way ; 
And in after years if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say. — 
" It 's dull in our town since my play- 
mates left ! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all tiie pleasant sights they see. 
Which the Piper also promised nie. 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees 

grew 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
And everything was strange and new ; 
The sparrows were brighter than pea- 
cocks here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
And horses were born with eagles' 

wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still. 
And found myself outside the hill, 
Left alone against my will. 
To go now limping as before. 
And never hear of that country more ! " 



Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 

There came into many a bui'gher's pate 

A text which says that heaven's gate 

Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! * 
The Mayor sent East, West, North and 

South, 
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth. 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he 'd only return the way he went, 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 't was a lost en- 
deavor. 
And Pii)er and dancers were gone for- 
ever. 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as well aj)pear. 
" And so long after what hap]iened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six : " 
And the better in memory to fix 
Tlie place of the cliildren's last retreat, 
They called it, tlie Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 



6o2 



BRITISH POETS 



Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
To sliock with niirtli a street so 
solemn ; 
But opposite the place of. the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the great church-window painted 
The same, to make tiie world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away, 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
Tliat in Transylvania there 's a tribe 
Of alien people who ascribe 
Tlie outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress. 
To their fathers and mothers having 

risen 
Out of some subterraneous prison 
Into wliicli they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a miglity band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
But how or wh}^ they don't understand. 



So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 
Of scores out with all men — especially 

pipers ! 
And, whether they pipe us free from rats 

or from mice. 
If we've promised them aught, let us 

keep our promise ! 1842. 

RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI 

I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun per- 
ceives 

First, when he visits, last, too, when he 
leaves 

The world ; and, vainly favored, it repays 

The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze 

By^ no change of its large calm front of 
snow. 

And underneath the Mount, a Flower I 
know. 

He cannot have perceived, that changes 
ever 

At his approach; and, in the lost en- 
deavor 

To live liis life, has parted, one by one. 

With all a flower's true graces, for the 
grace 

Of being but a foolish mimic sun. 

With ray-like florets round a disk-like 
face. 

Men nobly call by many a name the 
Mount 

As over many a land of tlieirs its large 

Calm front of snow like a triumphal 
targe 



Is reared, and still with old names, fresh 

names vie, 
Eacli to its proper praise and own 

account : 
Men call the Flower the Sunflower, 

sportively. 



Oh. Angel of the East, one, one gold loot 
Across the waters to this twilight nook, 
— The far sad waters. Angel, to this 
nook I 

III 

Dear Pilgrim, art thou for tlie East in- 
deed ? 
Go ! — saying ever as thou dost proceed, 
Tiiat I. French Rudel, chot>se for my 

device 
A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice 
Before its idol. See ! These inexpert 
And hurried fingers could not fail to 

hurt 
The woven picture ; 't is a woman's skill 
Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, ill 
Or well, the work is finished. Say, men 

feed 
On songs I sing, and therefore bask the 

bees 
On my flower's breast as on a platform 

broad : 
But as tiie flower's concern is not for 

these 
But solely for the sun, so men applaud 
In vain this Rudel. he not looking here 
But to the East— the East ! Go, .sav this. 

Pilgrim dear ! f842. 

THERE'S A WOMAN LIKE A DEW- 
DROP 

[from a blot in the scutcheon] 

There 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's 
so purer tlian the purest ; 

And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes. 
and her sure faith 's the surest : 

And her eyes are dark and humid, like 
the depth on depth of lustre 

Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sun- 
nier than the wild-grape cluster, 

Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
neck's rose-misted marble : 

Then her voice's music . . . call it the 
well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! 

And this woman sa^'s, " My days were 
sunless and my nights were moon- 
less, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



603 



Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
the lark's heart's outbreak tune- 
less, 

If you loved me not ! " And I who — (ali, 
for words of liame !) adore her, 

Wlio am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
palpably before her — 

I may enter at her portal soon, as now 
her lattice takes me. 

And by noontide as by midnight make 
her mine, as hers she makes 
me ! 1843. 

THE LOST LEADER ' 

Just for a handful of silver he left us. 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found tl\e one gift of which fortune be- 
reft us, 
Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him 
out silver, 
So mucli was theirs who so little al- 
lowed : 
How all our copper had gone for liis 
service ! 
Rags — were they pur2)le, liis heart liad 
been proud ! 

1 Brovvnius atlinitted that in writing this poem 
he had Wordswortli in mind, but insisted that he 
did not mean it as an exact portrait of Words- 
worth. Browning's mature judfrment on (he 
matter is best expressed in his own words : •' I 
did in my hasty youth presume to use tlie jrreat 
and venerated personality of Wordsworth as a 
sort of painter's model; one from which this oi- 
the other particular feature may be sek'cled 
an<l turned to account ; had 1 intended luorc 
above all, such a boldness as portraying the en- 
tire man, I should not have talked about 'hand- 
fuls of silver and bits of ribbon.' These never 
influenced the change of politics in the great 
poet, whose defection, nevertheless, accom- 
panied as it was by a regular face-about of Ids 
special party, was to my juvenile apprehension, 
and even mature consideration, an event to de- 
plore." See also ]Mrs. Orr's Browning (Life and 
Letters), I, 191. Compare Shelley's early Sonnet 

TO WORDSWORTH 

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know 
That things depart wliich never may return : 
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first 

glow. 
Have tied like sweet dreams, leaving thee to 

mourn. 
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine 
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore. 
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine 
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar : 
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood 
Above the blind and battling multitude : 
In honored poverty thy voice did weave 
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,— 
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve. 
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to 

be. 1815. 1816. 



We that had loved him so, followed him, 
honored him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent 
ey©: 
Learned his great language, caught his 
clear accents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to 
die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Jlilton was for 
us. 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they 
watcli from their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the 
freemen, 
— He alone sinks to tiie rear and the 
slaves ! 
We shall marcli pi'ospering, — • not 
through his presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us^ — not from his 
hre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his 
quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom tlie rest 
bade aspire : 
Blot out his name, tlien, record one lost 
soul more. 
One task more declined, one more 
footpath untnxl. 
One more devils'-triiimph and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more in- 
sult to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never come 
back to us ! 
Tliere would be doubt, liesitation and 
pain, 
i\)rce(l jnaise on our part — tlie glimmer 
of twilight. 
Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we tauglit liiui — 
strike gallantly. 
Menace our heart ere we master his 
own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge 
and wait us, 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the 
throne ! 184.5. 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD ^ 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX 1 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and 

he ; 
I galloped, Dirck gallojied, we galloped 

all three ; 

• This galloping ballad, which lias no historical 
foundation, was written at sea, off Cape St. 
Vincent. See Mrs. Orr's Browning, I, 144-45. 



6o4 



BRITISH POETS 



" Good .speed ! " cried the watch, as the 
gatebolts undrew ; 

" Sjjeed ! '* echoed the wall to us gallop- 
ing through : 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank 
to rest, 

And into tlie niidniglit we galloped 
abreast. 

Not a word to each otlier ; we kept the 

great jmce 
Neck by neck, stride by stride-, never 

changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its 

girths tight. 
Tiien shortened each stirruj:), and set tlie 

pique rig] it, 
Rebuckled tlie cheek-strap, (chained 

.slacker the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

"T was moonset at starting ; but while 

we <lrew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 

dawned clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out 

to see ; 
At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as 

could be : 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we 

heard the half-chime. 
So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there 

is time ! " 

At Aershot, np leaped of a sudden the 

sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black 

every one, [ing past. 

To stare through the mist at us gallop- 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at 

last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting 

away 
Tlie haze, as some bluff river headland 

its spray : 

And his low head and crest, just one 

sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out 

on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever 

that glance 
O'er its wliite edge at me, liis own 

master, askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes wliich 

aye and anon [ing on. 

His fierce lips sliook upwards in gallop- 
By Has.selr. Dirck groaned ; and cried 

Joris, '■ Sta}' sjiur I 



Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault "s 

not in her. 
We '11 remember at Aix " — foronelieard 

the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 

staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 

tiank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered 

and sank. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 

the sky ; [l^^ugb. 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 

stubble like chaff ; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 

white. 
And "(xallop,'" gasped Joris, " for Aix is 

in sight ! "' 

" How they "11 greet us ! " — and all in a 
moment liis roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as 
a stone ; 

And there was my Roland to bear the 
whole weiglit 

Of the news whicli alone could save Aix 
from lier fate. 

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to 
the brim. 

And with circles of red for his eye- 
sockets' rim. 

Tlien I cast loose nw butfcoat, each hol- 
ster let fall. 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt 
and all, [his ear. 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 
without peer ; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, 
any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped 
and stood. 

And all I remember is — friends flocking 
round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt mj' knees 
on the ground : 

And no voice but was praising this Rol- 
and of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last 
measure of wine, 

Wliich (tlie burgesses voted by common 
consent) 

Was no more than his due wlio brought 
good news from Ghent. 

1SJ8. 1845. 



/ 



ROBERT BROWNING 



605 



/ EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES 

FAME 

See, as the prettiest graves will do in 

time, 
Our poet's wants tlie freshness of its 

prime ; 
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the 

sods 
llave struggled through its binding osier 

rods ; 
Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean 

awry. 
Wanting the brick-work promised by- 

and-by ; 
How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er 

plate, 
Have softened down the ci*isp-cut name 

and date ! 



So, the year 's done with ! 

{Love nie furevev !) 
All March begun with, 

April's endeavor ; 
May-wreaths that bound me 

June needs must sever ; 
Now snows fall lound me. 

Quenching June's fever — 

{Love me forever ! ) 



1845. 



MEETING AT NIGHT 



The gray sea and the long black land : 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow. 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
And a voice less loud, through its joys 

and fears, 
Than the two heartsbeating each to each ! 

1845. 

PARTING AT MORNING 

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. 
And the sun looked over the mountain's 

rim : 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a world of men for me. 

1845. 



SONG 

Nay but you, who do not love her. 
Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 

Holds earth aught — speak truth — above 
her ? 
Auglit like this tress, see, and this tress, 

And this last fairest tress of all. 

So fair, see, ere I let it fall? 

Because you spend your lives in praising ; 
To praise, you search the wide world 
over : 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing. 
If earth holds aught — speak truth — 
above her ? 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much ! 

1845. 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FRO:\I ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now tliat April 's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware. 

That the lowest bouglis and the brush- 
wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard 
bough 

In England — now ! 

And after April, when May follows. 

And tlie wliitetlu-oat builds, and all the 
swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in 
the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the 
clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent 

spray's edge- 
That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each 
song twice over. 

Lest you should think he never could re- 
capture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough witii 
hoary dew. 

All will be gay when noontide wakes 
anew 

The buttercups, the little children's 
dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon- 
flower ! 1845. 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the 
Northwest died awav ; 



^ 



i 



6o6 



BRITISH POETS 



I 



Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reek- 
ing into Cadiz Bay ; 

Bluisli 'mid the burning water, full in 
face Trafalgar lay ; 

In the dimmest Northeast distance 
dawned Gibraltar grand and gray ; 

" Here and here did England help me : 
how can I help England?" — say, 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to 

God to praise and pray. 
While Jove's planet rises vonder, silent 
/Over Africa. ' 1838. 1845. 



^ 



TIME'S REVENGES 



I 'VE a Friend, over the sea ; 

I like him, but he loves me. 

It all grew out of the books I write ; 

Tliey find such favor in liis sight 

Tliat he slaughters you with savage looks 

Because you don't admire my books. 

He does himself tliough,- — and if some 

vein 
Were to snap to-night in this heavy 

brain, 
To-morrow month, if I lived to try. 
Round should I just turn quietly, 
Or out of tlie bedclothes stretch my hand 
Till I found him, come from his foreign 

land 
To be my nurse in this poor place, 
And make my broth and waali my face 
And liglit my fire and. all the while, 
Bear with his old good-humored smile 
Tliat I told him " Better have kept away 
Tlian come and kill me, niglitand day. 
With, worse than fever throbs and 

shoots, 
The creaking of his clumsy boots." 
I am as sure that this he would do. 
As that Saint Paul's is striking two. 
And I think I rather . . woe is me ! 

— Yes, rather should see him than not 

see. 
If lifting a hand could seat him there 
Before me in the empty chair 
To-night, when my head aches indeed. 
And I can neither think nor read. 
Nor make tliese j^urple fingers liold 
Tlie pen ; this garret's freezing cold ! 

And I've a Lady — there he wakes, 
Tlie laughing fiend and prince of snakes 
Within me, at her name, to pray 
Fate send some creature in the way 
Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 
Ui)tlirust ami outward-borne, 



So I might prove myself that sea 
Of passion wliich I needs must be ! 
Call my tliouglits false and my fancies 

quaint 
And my style infirm and its figures faint. 
All the critics say, and more blame yet. 
And not one angry word you get. 
But, please you, wonder I would put 
My cheek beneath that lady's foot 
Rather than trample under mine 
The laurels of the Florentine, 
And you shall see how the devil spends 
A fire God gave for other ends ! 
I tell you, I ride up and down 
This garret, crowned with love's best 

crown. 
And feasted with love's perfect feast, 
To think I kill for her, at lea.st. 
Body and soul and peace and fame, 
Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, 
■ — So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, 
Filled full, eaten out and in 
With the face of her, the eyes of her. 
The lips, the little chin, the stir 
Of shadow round lier mouth ; and she 
— I '11 tell j^ou — calmly would decree 
Tiiat I should roast at a slow fire, 
If that would compass her desire 
And make her one whom they invite 
To the famous ball to-mori-ow night. 

There may be heaven ; there must be 

hell ; 
Meantime, there is our earth here — 

well! 1845. 

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND i-^ 

That second time they liunted me 
From hill to plain, from siiore to sea. 
And Austria, hounding far and wide 
Her blood-hounds through the country- 
side, 
Breathed hot and instant on my trace, — 
I made six days a hiding-place 
Of that dry green old aqueduct 
Where I and Charles, when boys, have 

plucked 
Tlie fire-flies from the roof above, 
Briglit creeping through the moss they 

love : 
— How long it seems since Charles was 

lost! 
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 
Tlie country in iny very sight ; 
And when that peril ceased at night. 
The sky bi'oke out in red dismay 
With signal fires ; well, there I lay 
Close covered o'er in my recess, 



I 



ROBERT BROWNING 



607 



Up to the neck in ferns and cress, 
Thinking on Metternicli our friend, 
And Cliarles's miserable end, 
And much beside, two days ; the third, 
Hunger o'ercame me when I lieard 
The peasants from the village go 
To work among the maize ; you know, 
With us in Lombardy, tiiey bring 
Provisions packed on mules, a string 
With little bells that cheer their task, 
And casks, and boughs on every cask 
To keep the sun's heat from tlie wine ; 
These I let pass in jingling line. 
And, close on them, dear noisy crew, 
The peasants from the village, too ; 
For at the very rear would troop 
Their wives and sisters in a group 
To help, I knew. Wlien these had 

passed, 
I threw my glove to strike the last, 
Taking the chance : she did not start. 
Much less cry out, but stooped apart. 
One instant rapidly glanced round, 
And saw me beckon from tlie ground ; 
A wild bush grows and liides my crypt : 
She picked my glove up while she 

stripped 
A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
With that ; my glove lay in her breast. 
Then I drew breath: they disappeared: 
It was for Italy I feareil. 

An hour, and she returned alone 
Exactly where my glove was tlirown. 
Meanwhile came many thoughts ; on me 
Rested the hopes of Italy ; 
I had devised a certain tale 
Which, when 't was told her, could not 

fail 
Persuade a peasant of its truth ; 
I meant to call a freak of youth 
This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 
And no temptation to betray. 
But when I saw that woman's face, 
Its calm simplicity of grace. 
Our Italy's own attitude 
In which she walked thus far, and stood, 
Planting each naked foot so firm. 
To crush the snake and spare tlie worm — 
At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
" I am that man upon whose head 
They fix the price, because I hate 
The Austrians over us : the State 
Will give you gold — oh, gold so much ! — 
If you betray me to their clutch. 
And be your death, for aught I know. 
If once they find you saved their foe. 
Now, you must bring me food and drink. 
And also paper, pen and ink. 



And carry safe what I shall write 

To Padua, which you'll reach at night 

Before the duomo shuts ; go in, 

And wait till Tenebra^ begin ; 

Walk to the third confessional. 

Between the pillar and the wall, 

And kneeling whisper, Whence comes 

peace 9 
Say it a second time, then cease ; 
And if the voice inside returns. 
From Christ and Freedom. ; what concerns 
The cause of Peace .s*— for answer, slip 
My letter where you placed your lip ; 
Then come back happy we have done 
Our mother service — I. the son. 
As you the daughter of our land ! " 

Three mornings more, she took her 
stand 
In the same place, with the same eyes : 
I was no surer of sunrise 
Than of her coming. We conferred 
Of her own prospects, and I heard 
She had a lover — stout and tall. 
She said— then let her eyelids fall, 
" He could do much "—as if some doubt 
Entered her heart,— then, passing out, 
" She could not speak for others, who 
Had other thoughts ; herself she knew : " 
And so she brought me diink and food. 
After four days, tlie scouts pursued 
Another path ; at last arrived 
The help my Pad nan friends contrived 
To furnish me : she brought the news. 
For the first time I could not choose 
But kiss her hand, and lay my own 
Upon her head— "This faith was shown 
To Italy, our mother ; she 
Uses my hand and blesses thee." 
She followed down to the sea-shore ; 
I left and never saw her more. 

How very long since I have thought 
Concerning— mvich less wished for— 

aught 
Beside the good of Italy, 
For which I live and mean to die ! 
I never was'in love ; and since 
Charles proved false, what shall now 

convince 
My inmost heart I have a friend? 
However, if I pleased to s])end 
Real wishes on myself— say, three — 
I know at least what one should be. 
I would grasp Metternicdi until 
I felt his red wet throat distil 
In blood through these two hands. And 

next 
—Nor much for that an^ I perplexed— 



6o8 



BRITISH POETS 



Charles, perjured traitor, for his part. 
Should die slow of a broken heart 
Under his new employers.' Last 
— Ah, there, what should I wish ? For 

fast 
Do I grow old and out of strength. 
If I resolved to seek at length 
My father's house again, liow scared 
They all would look, and unprepared ! 
My brothers live in Austria's pay 
— Disowned me long ago, men say ; 
And all my early mates who used 
To praise me so — perhaps induced 
More than one early step of mine — 
Are turning wise : while some opine 
" Freedom grows licence,"' some suspect 
" Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
They always said, such premature 
Beginnings never could endure ! 
So, with a sullen " All's for best," 
The land seems settling to its rest. 
I think then, I should wish to stand 
Tills evening in that dear, lost land, 
Over the sea the thousand miles. 
And know if yet that woman smiles 
With the calm smile ; some little farm 
She lives in there, no doubt : what harm 
If I sat on the door-side bench, 
And, while her spindle made a trench 
Fantastically in the dust, 
Inquired of all her fortunes — just 
Her children's ages and their names. 
And what may be the husband's aims 
For each of them. I'd talk this out. 
And sit there, for an hour about, 
Then kiss lier hand once more, and lay 
Mine on her head, and go my way. 

So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. 

1845. 

yS PICTOR IGNOTUS 

FLORENCE, 15 — 

I COULD have painted pictures like that 
youtli's 
Ye praise so. How my soul springs 
up ! No bar 
Stayed me — ah, thought which saddens 
while it soothes ! 
— Never did fate forbid me, star by 
star. 
To outburst on your night with all my 
gift 
Of fires from God : nor would my flesh 
have shrunk 
From seconding mv soul, with eves up- 
lift 



And wide to heaven, or, straight like 
thunder, sunk 
To the centre, of an instant ; or around 
Turned calmly and inqui.sitive, to scan 
The license and the limit, space and 
bound, 
Allowed to truth made visible in man. 
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I 
saw. 
Over the canvas could my hand have 
flung, 
Each face obedient to its passion's law, 
Each passion clear jiroclaimed with- 
out a tongue ; 
Whether Hope rose at once in all the 
blood, 
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace. 
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when 
her brood 
Pull down the nesting dove's heart to 
its place ; 
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, 
And locked tlie mouth fast, like a 
castle braved, — 
O human faces, hath it si)ilt, my cup ? 
What did ye give me that I have not 
saved ? 
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how 
well!) 
Of going — I, in each new picture, — 
forth. 
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms 
swell. 
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, Soutli. 
or North, 
Bound for the calmly satisfied great 
State, 
Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went. 
Flowers cast vipon the car which bore 
tlie freight, 
Through old streets named afresh from 
the event, 
Till it reached home, where learned age 
should greet 
My face, and youth, the star not j^et 
distinct 
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet ! — 
Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, 
linked 
With love about, and praise, till life 
should end. 
And tiien not go to heaven, but linger 
liere. 
Here on my earth, earth's every man 
my friend, — 
The thought grew frightful. "t was so 
wildly dear ! 
But a voice clianged it. Glimpses of 
such sights 



I 



ROBERT BROWNING 



•J' 



609 



Have scared nie, like the revels 
through a door 
Of some strange house of idols at its 
rites ! 
This world seemed not the world it 
was before : 
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, 
tliere trooped 
. . . Wlio summoned those cold faces 
that begun 
To press on me and judge me? Though 
I stooped 
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a 
nun, 
Tliey drew me forth, and spite of me. . . 
enough ! 
These buy and sell our pictures, take 
and give, 
Count them for garniture and household- 
stuff. 
And where they live needs must our 
pictures live 
And see their faces, listen to their 
prate, 
Partakers of their daily pettiness, 
Discussed of, — "This I love, or this I 
hate, 
This likes me more, and this affects 
me less ! " 
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at 
whiles 
My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint 
Tiiese endless cloisters and eternal aisles 
With the same series. Virgin, Babe 
and Saint, 
AVith the same cold calm beautiful 
regard, — 
At least no merchant traffics in my 
heart ; 
Tlie sanctuary's gloom at least shall 
ward 
Vain tongues from where my pictures 
stand apart : 
Only prayer breaks the silence of the 
shrine 
While, blackening in the daily candle- 
smoke, 
Tliey moulder on the damp wall's 
travertine, 
' Mid echoes the light footstep never 
woke. 
So, die my pictures I surely, gently 

die! 
' , O youth, men praise so, — holds their 
/ / praise its worth ? 

'/Blown harshly, keeps the trump its 
golden cry ? 
Tastes sweet the water with such 
specks of earth ? 1845. 

39 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB 
AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH. 

ROME, 15— 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity 4 
Draw round my bed : is Anselm keep- 
ing back? 
Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I 

know not ? Well — 
She, men would have to be your mother 

once, 
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! 
What 's done is done, and she is dead 

beside. 
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. 
And as she died so must we die our- 
selves. 
And tlience ye niay perceive tlie world 

's a dream. 
Life, how and what is it ? As liere I lie 
III this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 
Hours and long hours in tlie dead night, 

I ask 
" Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace 

seems all. 
Saint Praxed's ever was the cliurch for 

peace ; 
And so, about this tomb of mine. I 

fought 
With tooth aiul nail to save my niche, 

ye know : 
— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my 

care ; 
Shrewd was that snatch from out the 

corner South 
He graced his carrion with, God curse 

the same ! 
Yet still niy niche is not so cramped but 

thetice 
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, 
And sojnewhat of the choir, those silent 

seats. 
And up into the very dome where live 
The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to 

lurk : 
And I shall fill my slab of basalt tliere. 
And 'neath my tabernacle take my i-est. 
With those nine columns round me, 

two and two, 
The odd one at my feet where Anselm 

stands : 
Peach-blossom marlile all, the rare, the 

ripe 
As fresh poured red wine of a mighty 

pulse 
— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion- 
stone, [peach, 
Put me where I may look at him ! True 



6io 



BRITISH POETS 



Rosy and flawless : how I earned tlie 

prize ! 
Draw close : that conflagration of my 

churcli 
— What then? So much was saved if 

aught were missed ! 
My sons, ye would not be my death ? 

Go dig 
The white-grape vineyard where the oil- 
press stood, 
Drop water gently till the surface sink, 
Arid if ye find . . . Ah God, I know 

not, I ! . . . 
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 
And corded up in a tiglit olive-frail, 
Some lump, ah God, of lajiis lazuli, 
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast 
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, 

all. 
That brave Frascati villa with its batli. 
So, let the blue lump poise between my 

knees. 
Like God the Fatlier's globe on both his 

hands 
Ye worship in the Jesu Cliurch so gay. 
For Gandolf shall not ciioose but see and 

burst ! 
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our 

years : 
Man goetli to the grave, and where is 

he? 
Did I say basalt for jiiy slab, sons ? 

Black— 
'T was ever antique-black I meant ! How 

else 
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come 

beneath ? 
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. 
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and 

perchance 
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, 
Tlie Savi(jur at his sermon on the mount, 
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last gar- 
ment ofl^. 
And Moses with the tables . . . but I 

know 
Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper 

thee. 
Child of my bowels, Anselm ? All, ye 

hope 
To revel down my villas while I gasp 
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy tra- 

verti ne 
Which Gandolf from liis tomb-top 

chuckles at ! 
Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, 

then ! 



'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I 
grieve 

My bath must needs be left behind, 
alas ! 

One block, pure green as a pistachio- 
nut. 

There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the 
world — 

And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to 
pray 

Horses for j^e, and brown Greek manu- 
scripts. 

And mistresses with great smooth niar- 
bly limbs? 

— That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright. 

Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's 
every word. 

No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second 
line — 

Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his 
need ! 

And then how I shall lie through cen- 
turies. 

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 

And see God made and eaten all day 
long. 

And feel the steady candle-flame, and 
taste , 

Good strong thick stupefying incense- 
smoke ! 

For as I lie liere, hours of the dead night. 

Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a 
crook. 

And stretch my feet forth straight as 
stone can point. 

And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, 
drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculi^tor's- 
work : 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange 
thoughts 

Grow, with a certain humming in my 
ears, 

About the life before I lived this life, 

And this life too, popes, cardinals and 
priests. 

Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, 

Your tall pale mother with her talking 
eyes. 

And new-found agate urns as fresh as 
day, 

And marble's language, Latin pure, dis- 
creet, 

— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? 

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! 

Evil and brief hatli been my pilgrimage. 

All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope 

My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 



6ii 



Ever y-t)iir eyes were as a lizard's quick, 
They glitter like your mother's tor my 

soul. 
Or ye would heighteu my impoverished 

frieze, [vase 

Piece out its starved design, and fill my 
With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, 
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus 

down. 
To comfort me on my entablature 
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask 
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave 

me, there ! 
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 
To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! 

Stone — 
Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares 

which sweat [through— 

As if the coi'pse they keep were oozing 
And no more lapis to delight the world ! 
Well, go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, 
Bvit in a row : and, going, turn your backs 
— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 
And leave me in my church, the church 

for peace. 
That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 
OKI Gandolf — at me, from Jiis onion- 
stone. 
As still he envied me, so fair she was ! i 
y 1845. 

I SAUL 

I 
Said Abner, "At last thou art come! 

Ere I tell, ere thou speak, 
Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I 

wished it, and did kiss his cheek. 
And he : " Since the King, O my friend, 

for thy countenance sent, 
Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; 

nor until from his tent 

1 " I know no other piece of modern English, 
prose or poetry, in which there is so much told, 
iis in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit, — its 
worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ig- 
norance of Itself, love of art, of luxury, and of 
good Latin. It is nearly all that I said of the 
central Renaissance in thirty pages of the Stones 
of Venice, put into as many lines. Browning's 
being also the antecedent work. The worst of 
it is that this kind of concentrated writing needs 
so much solution before the reader can fairly 
get the good of it. that people's patience fails 
them, and they give the thing up as insoluble; 
though, truly, it ought to be to the current of 
common thought like Saladin's talisman, dipped 
in clear water, not soluble altogether, but mak- 
ing the element medicinal." (Rtixkhi.) Otlier 
aspects of the Renaissance spirit, finer but 
equally true, are expressed, with similar concen- 
tration, in Old Pictures in Florence, Piotor Igno- 
tus, Andrea del Sarto, The Grammarian's Fune- 
ral, etc. etc. 



Tliou return with the joyful assurance 
the King liveth yet, 

Shall our lip with the honey be bright, 
with the water be wet. 

For out of the black mid-tent's silence, 
a space of three days. 

Not a sound hath escaped to thy ser- 
vants, of prayer nor of praise. 

To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have 
ended their strife. 

And that, faint in his triumph, the mon- 
arch sinks back upon life. 



"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! 
God's ciiild witii his dew 

On tliy gracious gold hair, and those 
lilies still living and blue 

Just broken to twine round thy harp- 
strings, as if no wild heat 

Were now raging to torture the desert ! " 



Then I. as was meet. 

Knelt down to the God of my fathers, 
and rose on mj' feet. 

And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. 
The tent was un looped ; 

I pulled vip the spear that obstructed, 
and under I stooped ; 

Hands and knees on tiie slippery grass- 
patch, all withered and gone. 

That extends to the second enclosure, I 
groped my way on 

Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. 
Then once more I prayed, 

And opened the foldskirts and entei-ed, 
and was not afraid 

But spoke, " Here is David, thy ser- 
vant ! " And no voice re])lied. 

At the first I saw naught but the black- 
ness : but soon I descried 

A something more black than tlie black- 
ness — the vast, the upright 

Main prop which sustains the pavilion : 
and slow into sight 

Grew a figure against it, gigantic and 
blackest of all. 

Then a sunbeam, that burst through the 
tent-roof, showed Saul. 



He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both 
arms stretched out wide 

On the great cross-suppoi-t in the cen- 
tre, that goes to eacli side ; 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hvuig there 
as, caught in his pangs 



6l2 



BRITISH POETS 



And waiting his change, the king-ser- 
pent all heavily hangs, 

Far away fioni his kind, in the pine, 
till deliverance come 

With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, 
drear and stark, blind and dumb. 



Then I tuned ray harp, — took off the 

lilies we twine round its chords 
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the 

noontide — tlKjse sunbeams like swords! 
And I first played the tune all our sheep 

know, as, one after one, 
So docile they come to the pen-door till 

folding be done. 
They are white and untorn by the 

bushes, for lo, they have fed 
Where the long grasses stifle the water 

within the stream's bed ; 
And' now one after one seeks itsjodging, 

as star follows star 
Into eve and tlie blue far above us, — so 

blue and so far ! 



— Then the tune for which quails on the 
cornland will each leave his mate 

To fly after the player ; then, what 
makes the crickets elate 

Till for boldness they fight one another ; 
and then, what has weight 

To set the quick jerboa a-musing out- 
side his sand house — 

There are none sucli as he for a wonder, 
half bird and half mouse ! 

God made all the creatures and gave 
them our love and our fear. 

To give sign, we and they are his chil- 
dren, one family here. 



Then I played the help-tune of our reap- 
ers, their wine-song, when hand 

Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good 
friendship, and great hearts expand 

And grow one in the sense of this world's 
life. — And then, the last song 

When the dead man is praised on his 
journej'— " Bear, bear him along, 

With his few faults shut up like dead 
flowerets ! Are balm seeds not here 

To console us? The land has none left 
such as he on the bier. 

Oh, would we might keep thee, my 
brother !■" — And then, the glad chant 

Of the marriage, — first go the young 
maidens, next, she whom we vaunt 



As the beauty, the pride of our dwell- 
ing. — And then, the great march 

Wherein man runs to man to assist him 
and buttress an arch 

Naught can break ; who shall harm them, 
our friends? Then, the chorus intoned 

As the Levites go up to the altar in glory 
enthroned. 

But I stopped here : for here in the dark- 
ness. Saul groaned. 

VIII 

And I paused, held my breath in such 
silence, and listened apart ; 

And the tent shook, for mighty Saul 
shuddei"ed : and sparkles 'gan dart 

From the jewels that woke in his tur- 
ban, at once, with a start. 

All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies 
courageous at heart. 

So the head : but the body still moved 
not, still hung there erect. 

And I bent once again to my playing, 
pursued it unchecked. 

As I sang : — 



" Oh, cnu' manhood's prime vigor! 

No spirit feels waste. 
Not a nmscle is .stopped in its playing 

nor sinew unbraced. 
Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping 

from rock up to rock, 
The strong rending of boughs from tlie 

fire-tree, the cool silver shock 
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, 

the hunt of the bear, 
And tlie sultriness showing the lion is 

couched in his lair. 
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed 

over with gold dust divine. 
And the locust-flesh steeped in the 

pitcher, the full draught of wine, 
And the sleep in tlie dried river-channel 

where bulrushes tell 
That the water was wont to go war- 
bling so softly and well. 
How good is man's life, the mere living ! 

liow fit to employ 
All the heart and the soul and the senses 

forever in joy ! 
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy 

father, wliose sword thou didst guard 
When he trusted thee forth with the 

armies, for glorious reward ? 
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy 

mother, held uj? as men sung 
The low song of the nearly-departed, and 

hear her faint tongue 



ROBERT BROWNING 



613 



Joining in vvliile it could to the witness, 

" Let one more attest, 
I have lived, seen God's hand through a 

lifetime, and all was for best ? " 
Tlien they sung througli their tears in 

strong triunipli, not much, but the rest. 
And thy brothers, the help and tlie con- 
test, the working whence grew 
Such result as, from seething grape- 
bundles, the spirit strained true : 
And the friends of thy boyliood — that 

boyliood of wonder and hope. 
Present promise and wealth of the future 

beyond the eye's scope, — 
Till lo, thou art grown to a monarcli : a 

people is thine ; 
And all gifts, which the world offers 

singly, on one head combine ! 
On one head, all the beauty and strength, 

love and rage (like the throe 
That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor 

and lets the gold go) 
High ambition and deeds which surpass 

it, fame crowning them, — all 
Brought to blaze on the head of one 

creature — King Saul ! " 



And lo, witli that leap of my spirit, — 
heart, hand, liarp and voice. 

Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, 
eacli bidding rejoice 

Saul's fame in the light it was made for 
— as when, dare I say. 

The Lord's army, in rapture of service, 
strains through its array, 

AtkI upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — 
'• Saul ! " cried I, and stopped, 

And waited the thing that should follow. 
Then Saul, who hung propped 

By the tent's cross-support in the centre. 
was struck by his name. 

Have ye seen wlien Spring's arrowy 
summons goes riglit to the aim. 

And some mountain, the last to with- 
stand her, tliat held (he alone. 

While the vale laughed in freedom and 
flowers) on a broad bust of stone 

A year's snow bound about for a breast- 
plate, — leaves grasp of the sheet ? 

Fold on fold all at once it crowds thun- 
derously down to his feet. 

And tliere fronts you, stark, black, but 
alive yet, your mountain of old, 

AVith his rents, the successive bequeatli- 
ing <.)f ages untold — 

Yea, each harm got in tigliting your 
battles, each furrow and scar 



Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the 

tempest — all hail, there they are ! 
— Now again to be softened with ver- 
dure, again hold the nest 
Of the dove, tempt tlie goat and its 

young to the green on his crest 
For their food in the ardors of summer. 

One long shudder thrilled 
All the tent till the very air tingled, 

tlien sank and was stilled 
At the King's self left standing before 

me. released and aware. 
What was gone, wluit remained ? All 

to traverse 'twixt hope and despair. 
Death was past, life not come : so he 

waited. Awhile liis right hand 
Held tlie brow, helped tlie eyes left too 

vacant forthwith to remand 
To their place what new objects should 

enter : 't was Saul as before. 
I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, 

nor was hurt any more 
Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, 

ye watch from the shore. 
At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — 

a sun's slow decline 
Over hills which, resolved in stern 

silence, o'erlap and entwine 
Base witli base to knit strength more 

intensely : so, arm folded arm 
O'er the chest whose slow heavings sub- 
sided. 

XI 

What spell or what charm, 

(For awhile there was trouble within 
me), what next should I urge 

To sustain him where song had restored 
liim ? — Song filled to the verge 

Ilis cup with the wine of this life, press- 
ing all that it yields 

Of mere fruitage, the strength and the 
beauty : beyond, on what fields, 

Grlean a vintage more i^otent and perfect 
to brighten the eye 

And bring blood to the lip, and com- 
mend them tlie cup they put by ? 
■He saith, "It is good ; " still he drinks 
not : he lets me praise life. 

Gives assent, yet would die for his own 
part. 

XII 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pas- 
ture, when round me the sheep 
Fed in silence — above, the one eagle 

wheeled slow as in sleep ; 
And I lay in my hollow and mused on 
the world that might lie 



6i4 



BRITISH POETS 



'Neatli his ken, thougli I saw but the 
strip "twixt the hill and the sky : 

And I laughed^" Since my days are 
ordained to be passed with my flocks, 

Let me people at least, with raiy fancies, 
the plains and the rocks. 

Dream the life I am never to mix witli, 
and image tlie show 

Of mankind as they live in those fash- 
ions I hardly shall know ! 

Schemes of life, its best rules and right 
uses, the courage tliat gains. 

And the prudence that kee^^s what men 
strive for." And now these old trains 

Of vague thouglit came again ; I grew 
surer ; so, once more the string 

Of my harp made response to my spirit, 
as thus — 

XIII 

"Yea, my King," 
I began — '• thou dost well in rejecting 

mere comforts that spring 
From the mere mortal life held in com- 
mon by man and by brute : 
In our flesh grows the branch of this 

life, in our soul it bears fruit. 
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the 

tree, — how its stem trembled first 
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's 

antler ; then safely outburst 
The fan-branches all round ; and thou 

mindest when these too, in turn, 
Broke a-bloom and tlie palm-tree seemed 

perfect : yet more was to learn, 
E'en the good tliat comes in with tlie 

palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight. 
When their juice brings a cure for all 

sorrow? or care for the plight 
Of the palm's self whose slow growth 

produced them ? Not so ! stem and 

branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, 

while the palm-wine shall stanch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. 

I pour thee such wine, 
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! 

the spirit be thine ! 
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome 

thee, thou still slialt enjoy 
More indeed, tlian at first when incon- 

scious, the life of a boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine run- 
ning ! Each deed thou hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world ! 

until e'en as the sun 
Looking down on the earth, though 

clouds spoil him, though tempests 
effa,ce. 



Can find nothing his own deed produced 

not, must everywhere trace 
The results of his past summer-prime, — 

so, each ray of thy will, 
Everj"^ flasii of thy passion and prowess, 

long over, shall thrill 
Thy whole people, the countless, with 

ardor, till they too give forth 
A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, 

fill the South and the North 
With the radiance thy deed was the 

germ of. Carouse in the past ! 
But the license of age has its limit ; tliou 

diest at last : 
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, 

the rose at her height. 
So with man — so his power and his 

beaut}'^ forever take flight. 
No ! Again a long draugiit of my soul- 
wine ! Look forth o'er the years ! 
Thou hast done now with eyes for the 

actual ; begin with the seer's ! 
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale 

make his tomb — bid arise 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four- 
square, till, built to the .skies, 
Let it mark where the great First King 

slumbers : whose fame would ye know ? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, 

where the record shall go 
In great cliaracters cut by the scribe, — 

Such was Saul, so he did ; 
With the sages directing the work, by 

the populace chid, — 
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised 

there! Whicli fault to amend. 
In the grove with his kind grows tlie 

cedar, whereon they shall spend 
(See, in tablets 't is level before them) 

tlieir praise, and record 
With the gold of the graver, Saul's stoiy, 

— the stateman's great word 
Side by side with the i)oet's sweet com- 
ment. The river 's a-wave 
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each 

other when prophet-winds rave : 
So the pen gives unborn generations their 

due and their part 
In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, 

thank God that thou art ! " 



And behold while I sang . . . but O 
Thou wiio didst grant me that day, 

And before it not seldom hast granted 
thy help to essay. 

Carry on and complete an adventure, — 
my shield and my sword 



ROBERT BROWNING 



615 



In that act where my soul was thy ser- 
vant, thy word was my word, — 
Still be with me, who then at the summit 

of human endeavor 
And scaling the highest, man's thought 

could, gazed hopeless as ever 
On the new stretch of heaven above me 

— till, mighty to save. 
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that 

distance — God's throne from man's 

grave ! 
Let me tell out my tale to its ending — 

my voice to my heart 
Which can scare dare believe in what 

marvels last night I took part. 
As this morning I gather the fragments, 

alone with my sheep. 
And still fear lest the terrible glory 

evanish like sleep ! 
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, 

while Hebron ujiheaves 
The dawn struggling witli night on his 

shoulder, and Kidron retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 



I say then, — my song 

While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, 
and ever more strong 

Made a proffer of good to console him — 
he slowly resumed 

His old motions and habitudes ingly. 
The right hand replumed 

His black locks to their wonted compos- 
ure, adjusted the swathes 

Of liis turban, and see — the huge sweat 
that his countenance batlies, 

He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds 
now his loins as of yore. 

And feels slow for the armlets of price, 
with the clasp set before. 

He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere 
error had bent 

The broad brow from the daily com- 
munion ; and still, thougli much spent 

Be the life and the bearing that front 
you, the same, God did choose. 

To receive what a man may waste, 
desecrate, never quite lose. 

So sank he along by the tent-prop till, 
stayed by the pile 

Of his armor and war-cloak and gar- 
ments, lie leaned there awhile. 

And sat out my singing, — one arm round 
the tent-prop, to raise 

His bent head, and the otlier hung .slack 
— till I touched on the praise 

I foresaw from all men in all time, to the 
man patient there ; 



And thus ended, the harp falling for- 
ward. Tlien first I was 'ware 

That he sat, as I say, with my head just 
above liis vast knees 

Which were thrust out on eacli side 
around me, like oak roots wliich please 

To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. 
I looked up to know 

If the best I could do had brought solace ; 
he spoke not, but slow 

Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till 
he laid it with care 

Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, 
on my brow : througli my hair 

The large fingers were pushed, and he 
bent back my head, with kind power — 

All my face back, intent to peruse it, as 
men do a flower. 

Thus held he me there with his great 
ej^es that scrutinized mine — 

And oh. all my heart how it loved him ! 
but where was the sign ? 

I yearned — " Could I help thee, my 
father, inventing a bliss, 

I would add, to that life of the past, both 
the future and this ; 

I would give thee new life altogether, as 
good, ages hence, 

As this moment, — had love but the war- 
rant, love's heart to dispense ! " 



Then the truth came upon me. No harp 
more — no song more ! outbroke — 



" I have gone the whole round of crea- 
tion : I saw and I spoke : 

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, 
received in my brain 

And pronounced on the rest of his hand- 
work — returned him again 

His creation's approval or censure : I 
spoke as I saw ; 

I report, as a man may of God's work — 
all's love, yet all's law. 

Now I lay down the judgeship he lent 
me. Each faculty tasked 

To perceive him, has gained an abyss, 
where a dewdrop was asked. 

Have I knowledge? confounded it 
shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. 

Have I forethought ? how purblind, how 
blank to the Infinite Care ! 

Do I task any faculty highest, to image 
success ? 

I but open my eyes, — and perfection, 
no more and no less, 



6i6 



BRITISH POETS 



In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, 

and God is seen God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in 

the soul and the clod. 
And thus looking within and around me, 

I ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in 

bending upraises it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect 

to God's all-complete. 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I 

climb to his feet. 
Yet with all this abounding experience, 

this deity known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, 

some gift of my own. 
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, 

hard to hoodwink. 
I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I 

laugh as 1 think) 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, 

wot ye, I w^orst 
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I 

could love if I durst ! 
But I sink the pretension as fearing a 

man maj' o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love : 

I abstain for love's sake. 
— What, my soul ? see thus far and 

no farther ? when doors great and 

small, 
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, 

should the hundredth appall ? 
In the least things have faitli, yet dis- 
trust in the greatest of all ? 
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's 

ultimate gift, 
That I doubt his own love can com- 
pete with it? Here, the parts shift ? 
Here, the creatvire surpass the Creator, — 

the end, what Began ? 
Would I fain in my impotent yearning 

do all for this man. 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help 

him, who j'et alone can? 
Would it ever have entered my mind, 

the bare will, much less power. 
To bestow on this Saul wiiat I sang of, 

the marvellous dower 
Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? 

to make such a soul. 
Such a body, and then such an earth 

for insphering the wliole? 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my 

warm tears attest) 
These good tilings being given, to go on, 

and give one more, the best ? 
Ay. to save and redeem and restore him, 

maintain at the height 



This perfection, — succeed with life's 
day-spring, death's minute of night ? 

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch 
Saul the mistake, 

Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, 
— and bid him awake 

From the dieam, the probation, the pre- 
lude, to find himself set 

Clear and safe in new light and new life, 
—a new harmony yet 

To be run, and continued, and ended — 
wlio knows ? — or endure ! 

The man taught enough by life's dream, 
of the rest to make sure ; 

By tiie pain-throb, triumphantly win- 
ning intensified bliss. 

And the next world's reward and repose, 
by the struggles in this. 

xvni 

"I believe it! 'T is thou, God, that 

givest, 't is I wOao receive : 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my 

power to believe. 
All 's one gift : thou canst grant it more- 
over, as prompt to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open 

these arms to the air. 
From thy will streanr the worlds, life 

and nature, tli}^ dread Sabaoth : 
I will?— the mere atoms despise nie ! 

Why am I not loth 
To look that, even that in the face too? 

Why is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance ? 

AVliat stops my despair ? 
This ; — 't is not what man Does which 

exalts liini, but wJiat man Would do ! 
See the King — I w^ould help him but can- 
not, the wishes fall through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, 

grow poor to enrich. 
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I 

would — knowing wiiich, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, 

sjieak through me now ! 
Would I suffer for him that I love ? 

■So wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 
So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffa- 

blest, uttermost crown — 
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor 

leave up nor dow^n 
One spot for the creature to stand in ! It 

is by no breath, 
Turn of eye, w^ave of hand, that salva- 
tion joins issue with death ! 
As thy Love is discovered almighty, 

almighty be proved 



ROBERT BROWNING 



617 



Tliy power, that exists with and for it, 

of being Beloved ! 
He who did most, shall bear most ; the 

strongest shall stand the most weak. 
'T is the weakness in strength, that I cry 

for ! my fiesli, that I seek 
In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O 

Saul, it shall be 
A Face like my face that receives thee ; 

a Man like to me, 
Thoii shalt love and be loved by, for- 
ever : a Hand like this hand 
Shall throw open tlie gates of new life 

to thee ! See the Christ stand ! " 

XIX 

I know not too well how I found m}"- way 

home in tlie night. 
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, 

to left and to right. 
Angels, powers, t!ie unuttered, unseen, 

the alive, the aware : 
I repressed, I got through them as 

hardly, as strugglingly tliere, 
As a runner beset by the populace 

famished for netvs — 
Life or death. The whole earth was 

awakened, liell loosed witli her crews ; 
And the stars of night beat witli emo- 
tion, and tingled and sliot 
Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowl- 
edge : but I fainted not. 
For the Hand still impelled me at once 

and supported, suppressed 
All the tumult, and quenclied it with 

quiet, and holy behest. 
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and 

the earth .sank to rest. 
Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had 

withered from earth — 
Not so much, but I saw it die out in the 

day's tender birth ; 
In the gathered intensity brought to the 

gray of the hills ; 
In the shuddering forests' held breath ; 

in the sudden wind-thrills ; 
In the startled wild beasts that bore off, 

eacli with eye sidling still 
Though averted with wonder and dread ; 

in the birds stiff and chill 
That roseheavilj', as I approached tliem, 

made stupid wnth awe : 
E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — 

he felt the new law. 
The same stared in the white humid 

faces upturned by the flowers ; 
The same worked in the Iieart of the 

cedar and moved the vine-bowers : 



And the little brooks witnessing mur- 
mured, persistent and low, 

With their obstinate, ail Init hushed 
voices — " E"en so, it is so ! " 

1845. 185.5.1 

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 

Let's contend no more, Love, 

Strive nor weep : 
All be as before. Love, 

— Only sleep ! 

What so wild as words are ? 

I ;uid thou 
In debate, as birds are, 

Hawk on bough ! 

See the creature stalking 

While we speak ! 
Husli and hide the talking, 

Cheek on cheek ! 

Wluit so false as truth is, 

'False to thee? 
Where the serpent's tooth is 

Shun the tree — 

Where the apple reddens 

Nevei" pry — 
Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 

Be a god and hold me 

With a charm ! 
Be a man and fold me 

With thine arm ! 

Teach mo, only teach. Love ! 

As I ought 
I will speak thy speech, Love, 

Think thy thought — 

Meet, if thou require it. 

Both demands. 
Laying flesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

That sliall be to-morrow, 

Not to-night. 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight : 

— TMust a little weep. Love, 

(Foolish me !) 
And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 1855. 

1 The first part of the poem, up to Section X. 
u ;is published in Dramntic Rninances and Lt/rics, 
IS45; the complete poem, in Jtfed- and Women, 

1855, 



6i8 



BRITISH POETS 



EVELYN HOPE 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watcli by her side an hour. 
That is her book -shelf, this her bed ; 
She plucked that piece of geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no light may 

pass 
Save two long rays through the hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she liad scarcely heard my 
name ; 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life liad many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of 
her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — • 
And, just because I was tlu-ice as old 
And our paths in the world diverged 
so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be 

told? 
We were fellow mortals, naught be- 
side ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the 
love : 
I claim you still, for my own love's 
sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few : 
Much is to learn, mucli to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time w^ill come — at last it will, 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I 
shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long 
still. 
That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall di- 
vine. 
And your mouth of your ow^n gera- 
nium's red — 



And what you would do witli me, in 
fine. 
In the new^ life come in the old life's 

stead . 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since 
then. 
Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men. 
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the 
climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full 
scope, 
Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
What is the issue ?• Let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed f^iU as it could hold; 
There was place and to spare for the 
frank young smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the 
hair's young gold. • 
So, hush, — I wuU give you this leaf to 
keep : 
See, I shut it inside tlie sweet cold 
hand ! 
There, tliat is our secret : go to sleep ! 
You will wake, and remember, and 
understand. 1855. 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS ^ 

Where the quiet-colored end of evening 
smiles 

Miles and miles 
On the solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle homeward through the twilight, 
sti'ay or stop 
As they crop — 
Was tlie site once of a city great and 
gay, 

(So they say) 
Of our country's very capital, its prince 

Ages since 
Held liis court in, gathered councils, 
wielding far 
Peace or war. 

Now, — the country does not even boast 
a tree. 

As you see. 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain 
rills 
From the hills 
Intersect and give a name to, (else they 
run 

Into one,) 



ROBERT BROWNING 



619 



Where the domed and daring palace 
shot its spires 
Up like fires 
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all, 
Made of marble, men might march on 
nor be pressed, 
Twelve abreast. 

And such plenty and perfection, see, of 
grass 
Never was ! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er- 
spreads 

And embeds 
Eveiy vestige of the .city, guessed alone, 

Stock or stone — 
Where a multitude of men breatlied joy 
and woe . 

Long ago : 
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, 
dread of shame 
Stri^jk tliem tame ; 
And that glory and that shame alike, 
the gold 

Bought and sold. 

Now, — the single little turret that re- 
mains 
On the plains. 
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 

Overscored, 
While the patching houseleek's head of 
blossom winks 
Through the chinks — 
Marks the basement whence a tower in 
ancient time 
Sprang sublime. 
And a burning ring, all round, the 
chariots traced 
As they raced. 
And the monarch and his minions and 
his dames 
Viewed the games. 

And I know, while thus the quiet-col- 
ored eve 

Smiles to leave 
To their folding, all our many-tinkling 
fleece 
In such peace. 
And the slopes and rills in undistin- 
guished gray 
Melt away — 
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow 
hair 
Waits me there 
In the turret whence the charioteers 
caught soul 
For the goal, 



When the king looked, where she looks 
now, breathless, dumb 
Till I come. 

But he looked upon the city, every side, 

Far and wide. 
All the mountains topped with temples, 
all the grades 
Colonnades, 
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — 
and then. 
All the men ! 
When I do come, she will speak not. she 
will stand. 
Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first 
embrace 
Of my face, 
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and 
speech 
Each on each. 

In one year they sent a million fighters 
forth 
South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen pillar 
high 
As the sky. 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full 
force — 

Gold, of course. 
Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood 
that burns ! 
Earth's returns 
For wliole centuries of folly, noise and 
sin ! 

Shut them in , 
With their triumphs and their glories 
and the rest ! 

Love is best. 1855. 



y 



UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE -^ 
CITY 

(as distinguished by an ITALIAN person 
OF QUALITY) 

Had I but plenty of money, money 

enough and to spare, 
The house for me no doubt, were a 

house in the city -square ; 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads 

at the window there ! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, some- 

tliing to hear, at least ! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a 

perfect feast ; 
Whil^up at a villa one lives, I maintain 

it, no more than a beast. 



620 



BRITISH POETS 



Well now, look at oui' villa ! stuck like 

the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the 

creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly 

a leaf to pull ! 
— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see 

if the hair's turned wool. 

But the city, oh the city — the square 

with the houses ! Why, 
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, 

there's something to take the eye ! 
Houses in four straight lines, not a single 

front awry ; 
You watch who crosses and gossips, who 

saunters, who hurries by ; 
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to 

draw when the sun gets higli ; 
And the shops with fanciful signs which 

are painted properly. 

What of a villa ? Though winter be over 

in March by rights, 
'T is May perhaps ei"e the snow shall 

have withered well off the heights : 
You 've the brown ploughed land liefoi'e, 

where the oxen steam and wheeze. 
And the hills over-smoked behind bj^ the 

faint gray olive-trees. 

Is it better in May, I ask you ? You've 

suminer all at once ; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few 

strong April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, 

scarce risen three fingers well. 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows 

out its great red bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the 

children to pick and sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a 

fountain to spout and splash ! 
In the shade it sings and springs : in the 

shine such foambows flash 
On the horses with curling fisli-tails, 

that prance and paddle and pash 
Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty 

gazers do not abash, 
Though all that she wears is some weeds 

round her waist in a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to 

see though you linger. 
Except yon cypress that points like 

death's lean lifted forefinger. 
Some think fireflies pretty, wheit they 

mix i' the corn and mingle, 



Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks 

of it seem a-tingle. 
Late August or early September, the 

stunning cicala is shrill. 
And the bees keep their tiresome whine 

round the resinous firs on the hill. 
Enough of the seasons, — I sjmre you the 

months of the fever and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the 

blessed church-bells begin : 
No sooner the bells leave off than the 

diligence rattles in : 
You get the pick of tlie news, and it 

costs 3'ou never a pin. 
By and by there's the travelling doctor 

gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth ; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the 

market beneath. 
At the post-office such a scene-picture — 

the new play, piping hot ! 
And a notice how, only this morning, 

three liberal thieves were shot. 
Above it, behold the Archbishop's most 

fatherly of rebukes. 
And beneath, with his crown and his 

lion, some little new law of the 

Duke's ! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the 

Reverend Don So-and-so, 
Wlio is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint 

Jerome, and Cicero. 
" And moreover," (the sonnet goes 

rhyming,) " the skirts of Saint Paul 

has reached. 
Having preached us tliose six Lent- 
lectures more unctuous tiian ever he 

preached." 
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the proces- 
sion ! our Lady borne smiling and 

smart 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, 

and seven swords stuck in her heart ! 
Bang-ichang-iohang goes the drum, 

tootle-fe-tuotle the fife ; 
No keeping one's haunches still : it's the 

greatest pleasure in life. 

But bless you. ifs dear — it 's dear! 

fowls, wine, at double the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, 

and what oil pays passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the 

villa for me, not the city ! 

Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but 

still — ah, the pity, the pity ! 
Look, two and two go the piiests, then 

the monks with cowls and sandals. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



621 



And the penitents dressed in white 

shirts, a-holding tlie yellow cundles ; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and 

another across with handles, 
And the Duke's guard brings up tlie rear, 

for the better prevention of scandals : 
Bang-ichaiig-wliang goea the drum, tootle- 

te-tootle the fife. 
Oil, a day in the city-square, there is no 

such pleasure in life ! 1855. 



J 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPFS 



Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad 

to find ! 
I can hardly misconceive 3'ou ; it would 

prove me deaf and blind ; 
But althovigh I take your meaning, 'tis 

with sucii a heavy mind ! 

Here y©u come with your old music, and 
here 's all the good it brings. 

What, tliey lived once thus at Venice 
where the merchants were the kings. 

Where St. Mark's is. where the Doges 
vised to wed the sea with rings ? 

Ay, because the sea 's the street there ; 

and 't is arched by . . . what you call 
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, 

where tliej^ kept tlie carnival : 
I was never out of England-T;it.'s as if I 

saw it all. 

Did young people take their pleasure 
when the sea was warm in Mjiy? 

Balls and masks begun at midnight, 
burning ever to mid-day. 

When they made up fresh adventures 
for the morrow, do you say ? 

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round 

and lips so red, — 
On her neck the small face buoyant, 

like a bell-flower on its bed. 
O'er the breast's superb abundance where 

a man might base his head ? 

Well, and it was .graceful of them — 
they 'd break talk off and afford 

— She, to bite lier mask's black velvet^ 
he, to finger on his sword, 

Wliile you sat and played Toccatas, 
stately at the clavichord ? 

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, 
sixths diminished, sigh on sigh. 

Told them something? Those suspen- 
sions, those solutions — '• Must we 
die ? " 



Those commiserating sevenths — •' Life 
might last ! we can but try ! " 

"Were you happy?"- — "Yes." — "And 

are you still as happy ? " — " Yes. And 

you ? " 
— "Then, more kisses!" — " Did J stop 

them, when a million seemed so 

few?" 
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it 

must be answered to ! 

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, 

they praised you, I dare say ! 
" Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good 

alike at grave and gay ! 
I can always leave off talking when I 

hear a master play ! " 

Then they left you for their pleasure : 

till ill due time, one by one. 
Some with lives that came to nothing, 

some with deeds as well undone, 
Death stepped tacitly and took them 

where they never see the sun. 

But when I sit down to reason, think to 

take my stand nor swerve. 
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung 

from nature's close reserve. 
In you come with your cold music till I 

creep through every nerve. 

Yes, 5'ou, like a ghostly cricket, creak- 
ing where a house was burned : 

" Dust and ashes, dead and dttne with, 
Venice spent what Venice earned. 

The soul, doubtless, is immortal — wliere 
a soul can be discerned. 

" Yours for instance : j^ouknow physics, 

something of geology. 
Mathematics are your pastime ; souls 

shall rise in their degree ; 
Butterflies may dread extinction,. — ' 

you '11 not die, it cannot be f 

" As for Venice and her people, merely 

born to bloom and drop, 
Here ou earth they bore their fruitage, 

mirth and folly were the crop : 
What of soul was left, I wonder, when 

the kissing had to stop ? 

"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, 

and I want the heart to scold. 
Dear dead women, with siicli hair, too 

— what's become of all the gold / 

Used to hang and brush tlieir bosoms? 

I feel chilly and grown old. 1855. 



622 



BRITISH POETS 



J> OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 

The morn when first it thunders in 
March. 
The eel in the pond gives a leap, they 
say : 
As I leaned and looked over the aloed 
arch 
Of the villa-gate this warna March day, 
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled 
In the valley beneath where, white 
and wide 
And washed by the morning water gold, 
Florence lay out on the mountain-side. 

River and bridge and street and square 

Lay mine, as much at my beck and call' 
Through the live translucent bath of air' 

As the sights in a magic crystal ball. 
And of all I saw and of all 1 praised. 

The most to praise and the best to see. 
Was the startling bell-tower Giotto 
raised : 

But why did it more than startle me ? 

Giotto, how, with that soul of yours. 
Could you play me false who loved you 
so? 
Some slights if a certain heart endures 
Yet it feels, I would havey our fellows 
know ! 
I' faith, I perceive not wliy I should care 
To break a silence that suits them best. 
But the thing grows somewliat hard to 
bear 
When I find a Giotto join the rest. 

On the arch where olives overhead 

Print the blue sky with twig and leaf, 
(That sharp-curled leaf which they 
never shed) 
' Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. 
And mark through the winter after- 
noons, 
By a gift God gi-ants me now and then, 
In tiie mild decline of those suns like 
moons, 
Who walked in Florence, besides her 
men. 

They might cliirp and chaffer, come and 
go 
For pleasure or profit, her men alive — 
My business was hardly with them, I 
trow, 
But with empty cells of the human 
hive ; 
— With tlie cliapter-room, the cloister- 
porch, 



The church's apsis, aisle or nave, 
Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, 
Its face set full for tiie sun to shave. 

Wherever a fresco peels and drops. 
Wherever an outline weakens and 
wanes 
Till tlie latest life in the painting stops, 
Stands One whom each fainter pulse- 
tick pains : 
One, wishful eacii scrap should clutch 
the brick, 
Each tinge not wholly escape the 
plaster, 
— A lion who dies of an ass's kick. 
The wronged great soul of an ancient 
Master. 

For oh, tins world and the wrong it does I 
They are safe in heaven with their 
backs to it. 
The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and 
buzz 
Round the works of, vou of the little 
wit ! 
Do their eyes contract to the earth's old 

scope, 
Now tliat tliey see God face to face. 
And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 
'T is their holiday now, in any case. 

Mucli they reck of your praise and j-ou ! 

But the wronged great souls — can they 

be quit 

Of a world where their work is all to do. 

Where j'ou style them, you of the little 

wit, 
Old Master Tins and Early the Other, 
Not dreaming that Old and New are 
fellows : 
A younger succeeds to an elder brother, 
Da Vincis derive in good time from 
Dellos. 

And here where your praise might yield 
returns. 
And a handsome word or two give 
help, 
Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns 

And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. 
What, not a word for Stefano thei'e, 

Of brow once prominent and starry. 
Called Nature's Ape, and the world's 
despair 
For his peerless painting? (See Vasari.) 

There stands the. Master. Study, my 
friends, 
What a man's work comes to ! So he 
plans it, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



623 



Performs it, perfects it, makes amends 
For the toiling and moiling, and then, 
sic transit! 
Happier the tluifty blind-folk labor, 
With upturned eye while tlie hand is 
busy, 
Not sidling a glance at the coin of their 
neighbor ! 
'T is looking downward that makes one 
dizzy. 

" If you knew their work you would deal 
your dole." 
May I take upon me to instruct you ? 
When Greek Art ran and reached the 
goal, 
Thus much had the world to boast in 
fructn — 
Tlie Truth of Man. as by God first spoken, 

Wliich the actual generations garble, 
Was re-uttered, and Soul (wliich Limbs 
betoken) 
And Limbs (Soul informs) made new 
in marble. 

So you saw yourself as you wished you 
were. 
As you might have been, as you can- 
not be ; 
Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there : 
And grew content in yovir poor degree 
With your little power, by those statues' 
godhead. 
And your little scope, by their eyes' 
full sway. 
And your little grace, by their grace 
embodied 
And your little date, by their forms 
that stay. 

You would fain be kinglier, say, than I 
am ? 
Even so, yovi will not sit like Theseus, 
You would prove a model ? The Son of 
- Priam, 
Has yet tlie advantage in arms' and 
knees' use. 
You're wioth — can you .slay your snake 
like Apollo ? 
You're grieved— still Niobe 's tlie 
grander ! 
You live — there's the Racers' frieze to 
follow : 
You die — there's the dying Alexander. 

So, testing your weakness by their 
.strength. 
Your meagre charms by their rounded 
beauty, 



Measured by Art in your breadth and 
length, 
You learned — to submit is a mortal's 
duty. 
— When 1 say "you" 'tis the common 
soul. 
The collective, I mean : the race of 
Man 
Tlmt receives life in parts to live in a 
whole, 
And grow here according to God's 
clear jjlan. 

Growth came when, looking your last 
on them all, 
You turned your eyes inwardly one 
fine day 
And cried with a start — What if we so 
small 
Be greater and grander the while than 
they ? 
Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of 
stature ? 
In both, of such lower types are we 
Precisely because of our wider nature ; 
For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. 

To-day's brief passion limits their range ; 
It seethes with the morrow for us and 
more. 
They are perfect — how else ? they shall 
never change : 
We are faulty — why not ? we have 
time in store. 
The Artificer's hand is not arrested 
With us ; we are rough-hewn, nowise 
polished : 
They stand for our copy, and once, in- 
vested 
With all they can teach, we shall see 
them abolished. 

"T is a life-long toil till our lump be 
leaven — 
Tlie better ! What's come to perfec- 
tion perishes. 
Things learned on earth, we shall practise 
in heaven : 
Works done least rapidly. Art mo.st 
cherishes. 
Tliyself shalt afford the example, Giotto ! 
Tliy one work, not to decrease or dim- 
inish. 
Done at a stroke, was just (was it not ?) 
"O!" 
Thy great Campanile is still to finish. 

Is it true that we are now, and shall be 

hereafter, 



62A 



BRITISH POETS 



But what and where depend on Ufe's 
minute ? 
Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter 
Our first step out of the gulf or in it ? 
Shall Man, such step within his endeavor, 
Man's face, have no moi'e play and 
action 
Than joy whicli is crj'stallized forever, 
Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? 

On which I conclude, tliat the early 
painters, 
To cries of " Greek Art and what more 
wish you ? " — 
Replied, " To become now self-ac- 
qnainters. 
And paint man, man, whatever the 
issue ! 
Make new hopes sliine tlirough the flesh 
the J' fray, 
New fears aggrandize the rags and 
tatters : 
To bring the invisible full into play! 
Let tlie visible go to the dogs — wliat 
matters ? " 

Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon 
and glory 
For daring so much, before they well 
did it. 
The first of the new, in our race's story. 
Beats tlie last of the old ; 't is no idle 
quiddit. 
The w^orthies began a revolution. 

Which if on earth you intend to ac- 
knowledge, 
Why, honor them now ! (ends mj- allo- 
cution) 
Nor confer your degree wdien the folk 
leave college. 

There "s a fancy some lean to and others 
liate— 
That, when this life is ended, begins 
New work for the soul in anotlier state, 
Wlieru it strives and gets weary, loses 
and wins : 
Where tlie strong and the weak, this 
world's congeries. 
Repeat in large what they practised in 
small, 
Througli life after life in unlimited 
series ; 
Only tlie scale 's to be changed, that 's 
"all. 

Yet I hardly know. When a soul lias 
seen 
B}'^ the means of Evil that Good is best. 



And, thi'ough earth and its noise, what 
is heaven's serene, — 
AVhen our faith in the same has stood 
the test — 
Why the child grown man, you burn the 
rod , 
The uses of labor are surely done ; 
There remaineth a rest for the people of 
God: 
And I have had troubles enough, for 
one. 

But at any rate I have loved the season 

Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy ; 
My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 

JMy painter — who but Cimabue? 
Nor ever was man of them all indeed. 

From these to Ghiberti and Ghirian- 
dajo, 
Could say that he missed m^' critic-meed. 

So, now to my special grievance — 
heigh-ho ! 

Their ghosts still stand, as I said before. 
Watching each fresco flaked and 
rasped. 
Blocked up. knocked out, or white- 
washed o'er : 
— No getting again what the church 
has grasped ! 
The works on the wall must take their 
chance ; 
" AVorks never conceded to England's 
thick clime ! " 
(I hope they prefer their inheritance 
Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime. ) 

When they go at length, with such a 
shaking 
Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly 
Each master his way through the black 
streets taking. 
Where many a lost work breathes 
though badly — 
Why don't they bethink them of who has 
merited ? 
Why not reveal, while their pictures 
dree 
Such doom, how a captive might be out- 
ferreted ? 
Why is it they never remember me ? 

Not that I expect the great Bigordi, 
Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, belli- 
cose ; 
Nor the wronged Lippino j and not a 
woi'd I 
Say of a sci'ap of Fra Angelico's : 
But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, 






ROBERT BROWNING 



625 



To grant me a taste of your intonaco, 
Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with 
a sad eye ? 
Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco ? 

Could not the ghost with the close red 
cap. 
My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, 
Save me a sample, give me the hap 
Of a muscular Christ that shows the 
draughtsman ? 
No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, 
Of finical touch and tempera crumbly — 
Could not Alesso Baldovinetti 

Contribute so much, I ask him 
liumbly ? 

Margheritone of Arezzo, 

Willi the grave-clothes garb and 
swaddling barret, 
(Why purse up uxouth and beak in a pet 
so. 
You bald old saturnine poll-clawed 
parrot ?) 
Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, 
Where in the foreground kneels the 
donor ? 
If such remain, as is my conviction, 
The lioarding it does you but little 
honor. 

They pass ; for them the i^anels may 
thrill, 
Tlie tempera grow alive and tinglish ; 
Their pictures are left to the mercies 
still 
Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the 
English, 
Who, seeing mere money's worth in their 
prize. 
Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno 
At naked High Art, and in ecstasies 
Before some clay-cold vile Carlino ! 

No matter for these ! But Giotto, you. 

Have you allowed, as the town-tongues 
babble it, — 
Oh, never ! it shall not be counted true — 

That a certain precious little tablet 
Which Buonarrotti eyed like a lover — 

Was buried so long in oblivion's womb 
And, left for another than I to discover. 

Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — to 
whom ? 

I, that have haunted the dim San 
Spirito, 
(Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) 
Patient on altar-step planting a weary 
toe! 
40 



Nay, I shall have it yet ! Detnr amanti ! 
My Koh-i-noor — or (if that 's a plati- 
tude) 
Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's 
eye ; 
So. in anticipative gratitude. 

What if I take up my hope and pro- 
phesy ? 

AVhen the hour grows ripe, and a certain 
dotard 
Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoic- 
ing, 
To the worse side of the Mont St. Gothard, 

We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; 
None of that shooting the sky (blank 
cartridge), 
Nor a civic guard, all plumes and 
lacquer. 
Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge 
Over Morello with squib and cracker. 

This time we 11 shoot better game and 
bag 'em hot — 
No mere display at the stone of Dante 
But a kind of sober Witaiiagemot 

(Ex : " Casa Guidi, " qnod videos atite) 
Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to 
Florence, 
How Art may return that departed 
with her. 
Go, hated house, go each trace of the 
Loraine's, 
And bring us the davs of Orgagna 
hither ! 

How we shall prologuize, how we snail 
perorate. 
Utter fit things upon art and history, 
Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at 
zei'o rate. 
Make of the want of the age no 
mystery ; 
Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras. 
Show — monarchy ever its uncouth cub 
licks 
Out of tlie bear's shape into Chimsera's, 
While Pure Art's birth is still the 
republic's. 

Then one shall propose in a speech (curt 
Tuscan, 
Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an 
" issimo,") 
To end now our half-told tale of Cam- 
buscan. 
And turn the bell-tower's alt to 
altissimo : 
And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia 
The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally, 



626 



BRITISH POETS 



Shall soar up in g;old full fifty braccia. 
Completing Florence, as Florence 
Italy. 

Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold 
Is broken away, and the long-pent fire. 
Like the golden hope of the world, un- 
baffled 
Springs from its sleep, and vipgoes the 
spire 
While " God and the People" plain for 
its motto. 
Thence the new tricolor flaps at the 
sky ? 
At least to foresee that glory of Giotto 
And Florence together, the first am I ! 

1855. 

"DE GUSTIBUS— " 

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 

(If our loves remain) 

In an English lane. 
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please. 

Making love, say, — 

The hai>pier they ! 
Draw yourself up from the light of the 

moon. 
And let them pass, as they will too soon. 

With the beanflowers' boon. 

And the blackbird's tune. 

And Maj', and June ! 

' What I love best in all the world 
Is a castle, precipice-encurled, 

, In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 
Or look for me, old fellow of mine, 
(If I get my head from out the mouth 
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands. 
And come again to tlie land of lands) — 
In a sea-side house to the farther South, 
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth. 
And one sharp tree — 't is a cypress — 

stands 
By the many hundred j^ears red-rusted. 
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted. 
My sentinel to guard the sands 
To the water's edge. For, what expands 
Before the house, but tlie great opaque 
Blue breadth of sea without a break ? 
While, in the house, forever crumbles 
Some fragment of the frescoed walls. 
From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 
A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 
Down on the pavement, green-flesh me- 
lons. 
And says tliere 's news to-day — the king 



Was shot at. toucl)ed in the liver-wing, 
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling , 
— She hopes they have not caught the 

felons. 
Italy, my Italy ! 

Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 
( When fortune's malice 
Lost her, Calais) 
Open my heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, '' Italy." 
Such lovers old are I and slie : 
So it alwavs was, so sh.all ever be ! 

1855. 

MY STAR 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red. 

Now a dart of blue ; 
Till m\^ friends have said 
They would fain see. too, 
.^Iv star that dartles tlie red and the 

blue ! 
Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, 
hangs furled : 
They must solace themselves with the 
Saturn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a 
world ? 
Mine has'opened its soul to me ; there- 
fore I love it. 1855. 

ANY AVIFE TO ANY HUSBAND 

My love, this is the bitterest, that thou — 
Who art all truth, and who dost love me 

now 
As thine ej'es say, as thy voice breaks 

to say — 
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love 

me still 
A whole long life through, had but love 

its will. 
Would death that leads me from thee 

brook delay; — 

I have but to be by thee, and thy hand 

AVill never let mine go, nor heart with- 
stand 
The beating of my heart to reach its 
place. 

When shall I look for thee and feel thee 
gone ? 

When cry for the old comfort and find 
none ? 
Never, I know ! Tiiy soul is in thy face. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



627 



Oh, I should fade— "t is willed so ! Miglit 
I save, 

(iladly I would, whatever beauty gave 
Joy to thy sense, for that was pre- 
cious too. 

It is not to be granted. But the soul 

Wlience tlie love comes, all ravage 
leaves tliat whole ; 
Vainly the flesli fades ; soul makes all 
tilings new. 

It would not be Ijecause my eye grew 

dim 
Tliou couldst not find the love there, 

tiianks to Him 
Who never is dishonored in the spark 
He gave us from liis fire of tires and 

bade 
Remember whence it sprang, nor be 

afraid 
While that burns on, though all the 

rest grow dark. 

So, how tliou wouldst be perfect, white 
and clean 

Outside as inside, soul and soul's de- 
mesne 
Alike, this body given to show it by ! 

Oh, tliree-parts through the worst of 
lifes abyss, 

Wiiat plaudits from tlienext world after 
this. 
Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain 
the sky ! — 

And is it not the bitterer to think 
Tliat disengage our iiands and thou wilt 
siidv 
Although thy love was love in very 
deed V 
I know that nature ! Pass a festive day, 
Tliou dost not throw its relic-flower away 
Nor bid its music's loitering echo 
speed. 

Thou let'st the strangers glove lie wdiere 

it fell ; 
If old things remain old things all is 

well. 
For thou art grateful as Ijecomes man 

best : 
And hadst thou only heard me play one 

tune. 
Or viewed me from a window, not so 

soon 
With thee would such things fade as 

with the rest. 

I seem to see ! AVe meet and part ; 't is 
brief ; 



The book I opened keeps a folded leaf. 
The very cliair I sat on, breaks tlie 
rank ; 
That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
Three lines, my face coines at so slight a 
call : 
And for all tliis, one little hour to 
thank ! 

But now, because the hour through years 

was fixed. 
Because our inmost beings met and 

mixed, 
Because thou once hast loved me — wilt 

thou dare 
Say to thy .soul and Who may list beside, 
'■ Tlierefore she is immortally my bride ; 
Uiiance cannot change my love, nor 

time impair. 

" So, what if in the dusk of life that's 

left, 
I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft. 
Look from my path when, mimicking 

the same. 
The firefly glimpses past jne, come and 

gone ? 
— Where was it till the sunset? Where 

anon 
It wall be at the sunrise ! What 's to 

blame ? " 

Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou 

take 
The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's 

sake, 
Put gently by such efforts at a beam ? 
Is the remainder of tlie w-ay so long. 
Thou need'st the little solace, thou the 

strong ? 
Watch out thy watch, let weak ones 

doze and dream ! 

Ah, but the fresher faces ! " Is it true," 
Thou 'It ask, " some eyes are beautiful 

and new ? 
Some hair, — how can one choose but 

grasp such wealth ? 
And if a man would press his lips to lips 
Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup 

there slips 
The dew drop out of, must it be by 

stealth ? 

" It cannot change the love still kept 

for Her, 
More than if such a picture I prefer 
Passing a day with, to a room's bare 

side : 



628 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlie painted form takes nothing she 

possessed. 
Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, 
A man looks. Once more, what is 

there to chide ? " 

So must I see, from where I sit and 

watch , 
My own self sell myself, my hand attacli 
Its warrant to the very thefts from 

me — 
Thy singleness of soul tliat made me 

proud. 
Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, 
Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God 

see ! 

Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all 

thou canst 
Away to the new faces — disentranced, 
(Say it and think it) obdurate no 

more ; 
Re-issue looks and words from the old 

mint, 
Pass them afresh, no matter whose the 

print 
Image and superscription once they 

bore ! 

Re-coin thyself and give it them to 

spend, — 
It all comes to the same thing at the 

end. 
Since mine thou wast, mine art and 

mine shalt be, 
Faithful or faitliless, sealing up the sum 
Or lavish of my treasure, thou must 

come 
Back to the heart's place here I keep 

for thee ! 

Only, why should it be with stain at all? 

Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of cor- 
onal. 
Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? 

Why need the other women know so 
mvich, 

And talk together, " Such the look and 
such 
The smile he used to love with, then as 
now ! " 

Might I die last and show thee ! Should 

I find 
Such hardship in the few years left 

behind, 
If free to take and light my lamp, and 

go 
Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit. 



Seeing thy face on those four sides of it 
The better that they are so blank, I 
know ! 

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn 

o'er 
Within my mind each look, get more 

and more 
By heart each word, too much to learn 

at first : 
And join thee all the fitter for the pause 
'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That 

were cause 
For lingering, though thou calledst, 

if I dvu-st ! ■ 

And j^et thou art the nobler of us two : 
What dare I dream of, that thou canst 
not do, 
Outstripping my ten small steps with 
one stride ? 
I "11 say then, here's a trial and a task — 
Is it to bear? — if easy, I "11 not ask : 
Though love fail, I can trust on in tliy 
pride. 

Pride? — when those eyes forestall the 

life behind 
The death I have to go through ! — when 

I find, 
Now that I want thy "help most, all 

of thee ! 
What did I fear ? Thy love shall hold 

me fast 
Until the little minute's sleep is past 
And I wake saved. — And yet it will 

not be ! 1855. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 

I WONDER do you feel to-day 

As I have felt since, hand in hand, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better through the land, 

Tills morn of Rome and May ? 

For me, I touched a thought, I know. 
Has tantalized me many times, 

(Like turns of thread the sjDiders throw 
Mocking across our path) for rhymes 

To catch at and let go. 

Help me to hold it ! First it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's 
cleft, 
Some old tomb's ruin ; yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft. 



I 



ROBERT BROWNING 



629 



Where one small orange cup amassed 
Five beetles — blind and green they 
grope 

Among the honey-meal : and last. 
Everywhere on tlie grassy slope 

I traced it. Hold it fast ! 

Tlie champaign witli its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Rome's ghost since her decease. 

Such life here, through such lengths of 
hours, 

Such miracles performed in play, 
Such primal naked forms of flowers. 

Such letting nature have her way. 
While heaven looks from its towers ! 

How say you? Let us, O my dove. 
Let us be unashamed of soul. 

As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 
How is it under our control 

To love or not to love ? 

I would that you were all to me. 
You that are just so much, no more. 

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 
Where does tlie fault lie ? What the 
core 

O' the wound, since wound must l)e ? 

I would I could adopt your will. 
See with your eyes, and set uia^ heart 

Beating by yours, and drink mj' fill 
At your soul's springs, — your part my 
part 

In life, for good and ill. 

No. I 3^earn upward, touch you close. 

Then stand away. I kiss your cheek . 
Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the 
rose 
And love it more than tongue can 
speak — 
Then the good minute goes. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute ? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, 
Onward, whenever light winds blow, 

Fixed by no friendly star ? 

Just when I seemed about to learn ! 

Where is the thread now ? Off again I 
The old trick ! Only I discern — 

Infinite passion, and the pain 
Of finite hearts that yearn. 1855. 



MISCONCEPTIONS 

This is a spray the Bird clung to. 

^Making it blossom with pleasure. 

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 

Fit for her nest and her treasure. 

Oil. what a hope beyond measure 

Was the poor spray's, which the flying 

feet hung to, — 
So to be singled out, built in, and sung 
to! 

This is a heart the Queen leaned on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic. 
Ere the true bosom she bent on. 
Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer 

went on — 
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, 
spent on ! 1855. 

ONE WAY OF LOVE 

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
Now. rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
And strew them where Pauline may 

pass. 
Slie will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 

How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my nuisic ? So ! 
Break the string : fold music's wing : 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 

"Sly whole life long I learned to love. 

This hour my utmost art I prove 

And speak mv passion — heaven or 

hell? 
Siie will not not give me heaven ? 'T is 

well ! 
Lose who may — I still can say, 
Those who win heaven, blest are they ! 

1855. 

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE 

June was not over 
Though past the full, 

And the best of her roses 
Had yet to blow, 
When a man I know 

(But shall not discover, 
Since ears are dull. 

And time discloses) 



630 



BRITISH POETS 



Turned him and said with a man"s true 

air, 
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't 

were. — 
'' If I tire of your June, will she greatly 

care ? " 

Well, dear, in-doors with you ! 

True ! serene deadness 
Tries a man's temper. 
Whafs in the blossoni 
June wears on her bosom ? 
Can it clear scores with you ? 
Sweetness and redness, 
Eailcin semper ! 
(to. let jnecare lor it greatly or slightly ! 
If June mend her bower now. your hand 

left unsiglitly 
By plucking the roses, — my June will do 
rightly. 

And after, for ]);istime. 
If June be refulgent 
With flowers in (completeness, 
All petals, no prickles, 
Delicious as trickles 
Of wine poured at mass-time, — 
And clioose One indulgent 
To redness and sweetness : 
Or if, witli experience of man and of 

spider, 
June use my June-lightning, the strong 

insect-ridder. 
And sto|» tlie fresh film-work. — why, 
June will consider. 1855. 

RESPECTABILITY 

Dear, had the world in its caprice 

Deigned to proclaim '• I know you 
both, 

Have recognized your plighted troth. 
Am si)onsor for you : live in peace ! '" — 
How many precious months and years 

Of youth had passed, that speed so 
fast. 

Before we found it out at last, 
The world, and what it fears! 

How much of priceless life were spent 
With men that ever\' virtue decks. 
And women models of their sex, 

Society's true ornament, — 

Ere we dared wander, nights like this, 
Through wind and rain, and watch the 

Seine. 
And feel the Boulevard break again 

To warmth and light and bliss ! 



I know ! the world proscribes not love ; 

Allows my finger to caress 

Your li[)s' contour and downiness. 
Provided it supply a glove. 
The world's good word ! — the Institute ! 

Guizot receives Montalembert ! 

Ell ? Down tlie court three lampions 
flare : 
Put forward your best foot ! 1855. 

LOVE IN A LIFE 

Room after room, 

I hunt tlie house through 

We inliabit togetlier. 

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou 
shalt lind lier — 

Next time, lierself ! — not the trouble be- 
hind iier 

Left in the curtain, tiie couch's perfume! 

As she brushed it. the (•ornice-wreath 
blossomed anew : 

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave 
of lier feather. 

Yet the day wears. 

And door succeeds door ; 

I try the fresh fortune — 

Range the wide liouse from the wing to 

the center. 
Still tlie same ciiance ! she goes out as I 

enter. 
Spend my whole day in the quest. — who 

cares ? 
But 't is twilight, you see, — with such 

suites to explore. 
Such closets to searcli, such alcoves to 

importune ! 1855. 

LIFE IN A LOVE 

Escape me ? 
Never — 
Beloved ! 
While I am I. and you are you. 

So long as the world contains us both, 
INIe the loving and you the loth. 
While the one eludes, must the other 

pursue. 
My life is a fault at last. I fear : 

It seems too much like a fate, indeed ! 
Tliough I do my best I shall scarce 
succeed. 
But wliat if I fail of my purpose here ? 
It is but to keep the nerves at .strain, 

To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall. 
And baffled, get up and begin again, — 
So the chase takes up one's life, that's 
all. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



631 



While, look but once from your farthest 
bound 
At nie so deep in the dust and dark. 
No sooner the old hope goes to ground 
Than a new one, straight to the self- 
same mark, 
I shape me — 
Ever 
Removed ! 1855. 

IN THREE DAYS 

So. I shall see her in three days 
And just one night, but nights are short, 
Then two long hours, and that is morn. 
See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! 
Feel, where my life broke off from thine, 
How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — 
Only a touch and we combine ! 

Too long, this time of year, the days ! 
But nights, at least the nights are sliort. 
As night shows where her one moon is, 
A handVbreadth of pure light and bliss, 
So life's night gives my lady birth 
And my eyes hold her ! What is worth 
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? 

O loaded curls, release your store 
Of warmth and scent, as once before 
The tingling hair did, lights and darks 
Outbreaking into fairy sjiarks. 
When under curl and curl I pried 
After the warmth and scent inside. 
Through lights and darks how mani- 
fold— 
The dark inspired, the light controlled ! 
As early Art embrowns the gold. 

What great fear, should one say, " Three 

days 
That change the world might change as 

well 
Your fortune ; and if joy delays. 
Be happy that no worse befell I " 
What small fear, if anotlier says, 
"Three days and one short night beside 
May throw no shadow on your ways ; 
But years must teem with change un- 
tried , 
With chance not easily defied, 
With an end somewhere undescried." 
No fear ! — or if a fear be born 
This minute, it dies out in scorn. 
Fear ? I shall see her in three days 
And one night, now the niglitsare short. 
Then just two hovirs. and that is morn. 

1855. 



THE GUARDIAN- ANGEL vj^ 

A PICTURE AT FANO 

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou 
only leave 
That child, when thou hast done with 
him, for me ! 
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
Shall find performed tiiy special minis- 
try, 
Ami time come for departure, thou, sus- 
pending. 
Thy flight, maj^'st see another child for 
tending, 
Another still, to quiet and retrieve. 

Tlien I shall feel thee step one step, no 
more. 
From where thou standest now, to 
where I gaze, 
— And suddenly my head is covered o'er 
AVith those wings, white above the 
child who ])rays 
Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee 

guarding 
Me, out of all the world ; for me, discard- 
ing 
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and 
opes its door. 

I would not look up thither past thy 
head 
Because the door opes, like that child, 
I know. 
For I should have thy gracious face in- 
stead , 
Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou 
bend me low 
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands 

together. 
And lift thenr up to pray, and gently 
tether 
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy gar- 
ment's spread? 

If this was ever granted, I would rest 
My head beneath thine, while thy 
healing hands 
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy 
breast. 
Pressing the brain, which too much 
thought expands. 
Back to its proper size again, and smooth- 
ing 
Distortion down till every nerve had 
soothing. 
And all lay quiet, happy and sup- 
pressed. 



632 



BRITISH POETS 



How soon all vvorklly wrong would be 
repaired ! 
I think how I should view the earth 
and skies 
And sea, when once again nij^ brow was 
bared 
After thy healing, with such different 
eyes. 

world, as God has made it ! All is 

beauty : 
And knowing this, is love, and love is 
duty. 
What furtlier may be sought for or 
declared ? 

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach 
(Alfred, dear friend !) — that little child 
to pray. 
Holding the little hands up, each to each 
Pressed gently, — with his own head 
turned away 
Over the earth where so much lay before 

hini 
Of work to do. tliough heaven was open- 
ing o'er him. 
And he was left at Fano by the beach. 

We were at Fano, and three times we 
went 
To sit and see him in his chapel there. 
And drink his beauty to our soul's con- 
tent 
— My angel with me too : and since I 
care 
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in 

power 
And glory comes this picture for a 
dower, [cent) — 

Fraught with a pathos so magnifi- 

And since he did not work thus earnestly 
At all times, and has else endured 
some wrong — 

1 took one thought his picture struck 

from me, 
And spread it out, translating it to 
song. 
My love is here. Where are you, dear 

old friend ? 
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's 
far end? 
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. 

1855. 

MEMORABILIA 

Ah. did you once see Shelley plain. 
And did lie stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again ? 
How sti'ange it seeins and new ! 



But you were living before that, 
And also you are living after ; 

And tiie memory I started at — 
My starting moves your laughter ! 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world no 
doubt. 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about : 

For there I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted featlier, an eagle-feather ! 
Well, I forget the rest. 1855. 

2 POPULARITY 

Stand still, true poet that 3'ou are ! 

I know 3'ou ; let me tr^- and draw you, 
Some night j^ou "U fail us : when afar 

You rise, remember one man saw you, 
Knew j^ou, and named a star ! 

My star, God's glow-worm! Wli}^ extend 
That loving hand of his wliicli leads 
you, 
Yet locks you safe from end to end 
Of this dark world, unless he needs 
J'ou, 
Just saves your light to spend ? 

His clenched hand sliall unclose at last, 
I know, and let out all the beauty : 

My poet holds the future last. 
Accepts the coming ages' duty, 

Their present for this past. 

Tliat day the earth's feast-master's brow 
Shall clear, to God tlie clialice raising ; 

•' Others give best at first, but thou 
Forever set'st our table i)raising, 

Keep'st the good wine till now ! " 

Meantime. I '11 draw you as you stand, 
Witli few or none to watch and 
wonder : 

I 'II say — a fisher, on the sand 

By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, 

A netful, brought to land. 

Who has not heard how Tyrian shells 
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes 

Whereof one drop worked miracles, 
And colored like Astarte's eyes 

Raw silk the merchant sells ? 

And each bystander of them all 
Could criticise, and quote tradition 



ROBERT BROWNING 



^33 



How (leptlis of blue sublimed some pall 
— To get which, pricked a king's am- 
bition ; 
Worth sceptre, crown and ball. 

Yet there 's the dye, in that rough inesli. 

The sea has only just o'er-\\-lnspered I 
Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping- 
fresh. 

As if they still the water's lisp heard 
Through foam the rock-weeds tliresh. 

Enough to furnish Solomon 

Such hangings for his cedar-house. 

That, when gold-robed he took the 
throne 
In that abyss of blue, the Spovise 

Might swear his presence shone. 

Most like the centre-spike of gold 
Which burns deep in the bluebell's 
womb 

What time, with ardors manifold. 
The bee goes singing to her groom. 

Drunken and overbold. 

Mere conches ! not fit for war]) or woof I 
Till cunning come to jiound and 
squeeze 

And clarify, — refine to proof 
The liquor filtered by degrees, 

While the world stands aloof. 

And there 's the extract, flasked and 
fine. 
And priced and sala,l)le at last ! 
And Hobbs. Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes 
combine 
To ])aint the future from the i)ast. 
Put blue into their line. 

Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle 

eats : 
■ Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his 

cup : 
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats. - 
Both gorge. Who fisiied the niurex 
up? 
What porridge had John Keats ? i 

1855. 



/ 



THE PATRIOT 



AN OLD STORY 



It was roses, roses, all the way, 
With mj'rtle mixed in my path like 
mad : 

* See Chesterton's Life of Browning, pp. 154-iJ. 



The house-roofs seemed to heave and 
sway. 
The church-spires flamed, such flags 
they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 

The air broke into a mist with bells, 
The old walls rocked with the crowd 
and cries. 
Had I said, '"Good folk, mere noise re- 
pels — 
But give me your sun from yonder 
skies ! " 
They had answered, ''And afterward, 
what else ?" 

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 

Naught man could do, have I left un- 
done : 
And you see my harvest, what I reap 

This very day, now a year is run. 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at tiie windows set ; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
At the Sliambles' Gate — or, Vietteryet, 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 
A rope cuts both my wrists beliind ; 

And I think, b}' the feel, my forehead 
bleeds. 
For they fling, whoever has a mind, 

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 

Tims I entered, and thus I go ! 

In triumphs, people have dropped 
down dead. 
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 
Me?" — God might question; now in- 
stead , 
"T is God shall repay : I am safer so. 

1855. 

A LIGHT WOMAN 

So far as our story approaches the end, 
Wliich do you pity the most of us 
three ? — 

My friend, or the mistress of my frienil 
With her wanton eyes, or me ? 

My friend was already too good to lose. 
And seemed in the way of improve- 
ment yet. 
When she crossed his path with her 
hunting-noose. 
And over him drew her net. 



634 



BRITISH POETS 



When I saAv him tangled in her toils, 
A shame, said I, if she adds just him 

To her nine-and-ninet}' other spoils, 
The hundredth for a whim ! 

And before my friend be wholly hers, 
How easy to prove to him, I said, 

An eagle's the game her pride prefers, 
Though she snaps at a wren instead ! 

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, 
My hand sought hers as in earnest 
need, 

And round she turned for my noble sake, 
And gave me herself indeed. 

The eagle am I, with my fame in the 
world. 

The wren is he, with his maiden face. 
— You look away and y ova- lip is curled ? 

Patience, a moment's space ! 

For see. my friend goes shaking and 
white ; 
He eyes me as the basilisk : 
I have turned, it appears, his day to 
night. 
Eclipsing his sun's disk. 

And I did it, he thinks, as a verj- thief : 
" Though I love her — that, he compre- 
hends — 
One should master one's passions, (love, 
in chief) 
And be loyal to one's friends I '' 

And she, — she lies in my hand as tame 
As a pear late basking over a wall ; 

Just a touch to try and off it came ; 
'T is mine, — can I let it fall ? 

With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst ! 
Were it thrown in the road, would the 
case assist ? 
'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' 
thirst 
AVhen I gave its stalk a twist. 

And I. — what I seem to my friend, you 
see : 
What I soon shall seem to his love, 
you guess : 
What I seem to myself, do you ask of 
nie ? 
No hero, I confess. 

'T is an awkward thing to play with 
souls. 
And matter enough to save one's own : 



Yet think of my friend, and the burning 
coals 
He played with for bits of stone ! 

One likes to show the truth for the 
truth ; 
That the woman was light is verj"^ 
true : 
But suppose she says,— Never mind that 
youth, 
What wrong have I done to you? 

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, 

80 far at least as I understand ; 
And, Robert Browning, you writer <^f 
plays. 
Here 's a subject made to vour hand I 

1855. 

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 

I SAii> — Then dearest, since 't is so. 
Since now at length my fate I know, 
Since nothing all my love avails. 
Since all, my life seemed meant for, 

fails. 
Since this was written and needs must 

be — 
My whole heart rises up to bless 
Yoiu" name in pride and thankfulness ! 
Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
Only a memory of the same. 
— And this beside, if j-ou will not blame. 
Your leave for one more last ride with 

me. 

^ly mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
Those deep dark eyes where priile de- 
murs 
When pity would be softening through. 
Fixed me a breathing-while or two 
With life or death in the balance : 
right ! 
The blood replenished me again ; 
My last thought was at least not vain : 
I and my mistress, side by side 
Shall be together, breathe and ride, 
So, one daj^ more am I deified. 

Who knows but the world ma}' end 
to-night ? 

Hush ! if 5'ou saw some western cloud 
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 
By many benedictions — sun's 
And moon's and evening-star's at once — 
And so, you, looking and loving best. 
Conscious grew, your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
Down on you, near and yet more near, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



635 



Till flesh must fade for heaven was 

here ! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and 

fear ! 
Thus lay* she a moment on my breast. 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped 

scroll 
Fresliening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 

Wliat need to strive with a life awrj^ ? 
Had I said that, had I done this 'i 
80 might I gain, so miglit I miss. 
Might she have loved me? just as well 
She might have hated, who can tell ! 
Where had I been now if the worst be- 
fell? 

And liere we are riding, she and I. 

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 
Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? 
We rode ; it seemed, my spirit flew, 
Saw other regions, t-ities new, 

As the world rushed by on either side. 
T thought, — All labor, yet no less 
Bear ui) beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at tile end of work, conti'ast 
The petty done, tiie undone vast, 
This present of theirs with the hopeful 

past ! 
I hoped she would love me ; here we 

ride. 

What hand and brain went ever paired? 
What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
What act proved all its thought liatl 

been ? 
What will but felt the fleshly screen ? 
We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There's many a crown for us who can 

reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! 
The flag stuck on a heaii of bones, 
A soldier's doing ! what atones? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey- 
stones. 
My riding is better, by their leave. 

What does it all mean, poet? Well. 
Your bi'ains beat into rhythm, you tell 
What we felt only ; you expressed 
You hold tilings beautiful the best, 
And place them in rhyme so, side by 
side. 
'Tis something, nay 't is much: but then. 
Have you yourself wliat's best for men ? 
Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 



Than we who never have turned a 
rhyme ? 
Sing, riding's a joy. For me, I ride. 

And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave, 
And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine ? 
What, man of music, you grown gray 
With notes and nothing else to say. 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
■' Greatly his opera's strains intend. 
But in music we know how fashions 
end ! " 

I gave my youth ; but we ritle, in tine. 

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — ■ 
Still one nuist lead .some life be^'ond, 

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
This foot once planted on the goal. 
This gloiy-garland round my soul, 
Could I descry such ? Try ;ind test ! 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven 
seem best? 

Now, heaven and she are beyond this 
ride. 

And yet — she has not spoke so long ! 
What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
At life's best, with our ej'es upturned 
Whither life's flower is first discerned, 

We, fixed so, ever shouM so al)ide? 
What if we still ride on. we two. 
With life forever old yet new. 
Changed not in kind but in degree, 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 

Ride, ride together, forever ride "'' 

1855. 

A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

SHORTLY Ap-TER THE REVIVAL OF LEARN- 
ING IX EUROPE 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse. 

Singing together. 
Leave we tiie common crofts, the vulgar 
thorpes 

Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 

Cared-for till cock-crow : 
Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country ; there, 
man's thought, 



636 



BRITISH POETS 



Riirer, intenser. 
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it 
ought, 
Chafes in tlie censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd 
and crop ; 
Seek we sepulture 
On a tall mountain, eitied to the top. 

Crowded witli culture ! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest ex- 
cels ; 
Clouds ovei'come it ; 
No ! yondei' sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 
Thither our patli lies ; wind we up the 
heights ; 
Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life was the level's and the 
night's ; 
He 's for the morning. 
Step to a tune, square chests, erect eac-li 
head , 
'Ware the beholders ! 
This is our master, famous, calm and 
dead, 
Borne on our shoulders. 

Sleep, GroY> and herd! sleep, darkling 
thorpe and croft, 
Safe from tli'e weather I 
He, whom w^e convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing togetlier. 
He was a man born with tli}" fac^e and 
throat, 
Lyric Apollo ! 
Long he lived nameless : how sliould 
Spring take note 
Winter would follow ? 
Till lo. tlie little touch, and youth was 
gone ! 
Cramped and diminished, 
Moaned he. " New measures, other feet 
anon ! 
My dance is finished '? " 
No. that 's the world's way : (keep the 
nio»intain-side. 
Make for the city I) 
He knewtlie signal, and stepped on with 
pride 
Over men's pitj' : 
Left play for work, and grappled with 
the world 
Bent on escaping : 
" What's in the scroll," quoth he, " tliou 
keepest furled ? 
Show me tlieir shaping, 
Theirs who most studied man, tlie bard 
and sage, — 
Give ! " — So, he gowned him, 



Straight got by heart that book to its 
last page : 
Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes 
like lead, • 

Accents uncertain : 
*' Time to taste life," another would have 
said, 
" Up with the curtain ! '' 
This man said rather, " Actual life comes / 

next?__ ~- ' 

■Patiencea moment ! 
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed 
text. 
Still there's the comment. 
Let me know all ! Prate not of most or 
least. 
Painful or easy ! 
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat ujj the 
feast. 
Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oil, such a life as he resolved to live. 

When he had learned it. 
When he had gathered all books had to 
give ! 
Sooner, he spurned it. \ \ 

Image the whole, then execute the ^ ' 
parts — 
Fancy the fabric 
yuite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire J j 
from quartz, // 

Ere mortar dab brick ! 

(Here's the town-gate readied : there's 
tiie market-place 
G;il)ing before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 

(Hearten our chorus !) 
That before living Jie'd learn how ti) 
live — 
No end to learning : 
Earn the means first — God surelj' will 
contrive 
Use for our earning. 
Others mistrust and say, '"But time 
escapes : 
Live now or never ! " 
He said, '• What's time? Leave Now for 
dogs and apes ! 
Man has Forever." 
Back to his book then : deeper drooped 
his head : 
Calculus racked him : 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of 
lead : 
Tussis attacked liim. 
" Now. master, take a little rest ! " — not 
he ! 
(Caution redoubled, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



637 



Step two abreast, the waj' winds nar- 
rowly !) 

Not a whit troubled. 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first. 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 

Sucked at the flaj;on. 
Oil, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 

Bad is our bargain ! 
Was it not great ? did not he throw on 
God, 

(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly period 

Perfect the earthen ? 
Did 7iot he magnify the mind, show clear 

Just what it ail meant ? 
He would not discount life, as fools do 
here, 

Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's 
success 

Found, or eai"th's failure : 
"Wilt thou trust death or not? "He 
answered '• Yes ! 

Hence with life's pale lure ! "' 
That low man seeks a little tiling to do. 

Sees it and does it : 
Tliis high man, with a great thing to 
pursue, 

Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to one. 

His hundred's soon liit : 
This liigh man, aiming at a million, 

Misses an unit. 
That, has the world here — should he need 
the next. 

Let the world mind him ! 
This, throws himself on God, and unper- 
plexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death 
at strife 

Gi'ound he at grammar ; 
Still, through the rattle, parts of speech 
were rife : 

While he could stammer 
He settled Hoti's business — let it be ! — 

Properly based Oun — 
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, 

Dead from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the 
proper place : 

Hail to your purlieus. 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race. 

Swallows and curlews ! [low 

Here's the top-peak ; the multitude be- 

Live, for thev can, there : 



This man decided not to Live but Know — 

Bury this man there ? 
Here — here's his place, where meteors 
shoot, clouds form. 
Lightnings are loosened. 
Stars come and go ' Let joy break with 
the storm. 
Peace let the dew send ! 
Lofty designs must close in like effects : 

Loftily lying. 
Leave him— still loftier than the world 
suspects. 
Living and dying. 1855. 

THE STATUE AND THE BUST 

There's a palace in Florence, the world 

knows well. 
And a statue watches it from the square. 
And this storv of both do our townsmen 

tell. 

Ages ago, a lady there. 
At the farthest window facing the East 
Asked. "Who rides by with the roval 
air ! " 

The bridesmaids' prattle around lier 

ceased ; 
She leaned forth, one on either hand : 
They saw how the blush of the bride in- 
creased — 

They felt by its beats her heart expand — 
As one at each ear and both in a breath 
Whispered, •' The Great-Duke Ferdi- 
nand." 

That selfsame instant, underneath, 
The Duke rode past in his idle .way. 
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. 

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. 

Till he threw his head back — "Who is 

she?" 
— " A bride the Riccardi brings home 

to-day." 

Hair in heaps lay heavily 
Over a pale brow spirit-pure — 
Carved like the heart of the coal-black 
tree. 

Crisped like a war steed's encoliu-e — 
And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes 
Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise 
Filled the fine empty slieath of a man, — 
The Duke grew straightway brave and 
wise. 



638 



BRITISH POETS 



He looked at her as a lover can ; 

Slie looked ;it him, as one who awakes : 

The past was a sleep, and her life began. 

Now, love so ordered for both their 

sakes, 
A feast was held tliat selfsame night 
In the pile which the mighty shadow 

makes. 

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, 
But the palace overshadows one, 
Because of a crime, which m;iy God re- 
quite I 

To Florence and God the wrong was 

done. 
Through the first rei")ublic's murder there 
By Cosimo and his cursed son.) 

The Duke ( with the statue's face in the 

square) 
Turned in the midst of his multitude 
At the bright approach of the bridal 

pair. 

Face to face the lovers stood 
A single minute and no more 
While the bridegroom bent as a man sub- 
dued — 

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — 
For the Duke on the lady a kiss con- 
ferred, 
As the courtly custom was of yore. 

In a minute can lovers exchange a word ? 
If a word did pass, which I do not think. 
Only one out of a thousand heard. 

That was the bridegroom. At day's 

brink 
He and his bride were alone at last 
In a bed chamber by a taper's blink. 

Calmly he said that her lot was cast. 
That the door she had passed was shut 

on her 
Till the final catafalk repassed. 

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir. 
Through a certain window facing the 

East 
She could watch like a convent's chroni- 
cler. 

Since passing the door might lead to a 
feast. 

And a feast inight lead to so much be- 
side. 

He, of many evils, chose the least. 



'• Freely I choose too," said the bride — 
'■ Your window and its world sufifice," 
Replied the tongue, while the heart 
replied — 

"If I spend the night with that devil 

twice. 
May his window serve as my loop of hell 
AVhence a damned soul looks on para- 
dise ! 

" I fly to tlie Duke wlio lovqs me well, 
Sit by Ins side and laugh at sorrow 
Ere I count another ave-bell. 

" 'T is only tlie coat of a i^age to borrow, 
And tie n\y hair in a horse-boy's trim. 
And I save my soul — but not to-mor- 
row — " 

(She checked herself and her eye grew 

dim) 
" Jly father tarries to bless my state : 
I must keep it one day more for him. 

" Is one day more so long to wait ? 
Moreover the Duke rides past, I know ; 
We shall see each other, sure as fate." 

She turned on her side and slept. Just 

so! 
So we resolve on a thing and slee[) : 
So did the lady, ages ago. 

That night the Duke said, " Dear or 

cheap 
As the cost of this cup of bliss may 

prove 
To body or soul, I will drain it deep." . 

And on the moriow, bold with love, 
He beckoned the bridegroom (close on 

call, 
As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 

And smiled " 'T was a very funeral. 
Your lady will tiiink, this feast of 

ours, — 
A shame to efface whate'er befall ! 

" AVhat if we break from the Arno bow- 
ers. 

And try if Petraja, cool and green. 

Cvire last night's faults with this morn- 
ing's flowers?" 

The bridegroom, not a thought to be 

seen 
On his stead}' brow and quiet moutii. 
Said, " Too much favor for me so mean ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



639 



'• But alas ! my lady leaves the South ; 
Each wind that comes from tlie Apen- 

nine 
Is a menace to her tender youth : 

" Nor a way exists, the wise opine, 
If she quits her palace twice tliis year, 
To avert the flower of life's decline. ' 

Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kindly 

fear. 
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring : 
Be our feast to-Jiiglit as usual here ! '" 

And then to liimself — " Which night 

shall bring 
Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — 
Or I am the fool, ;ind thou art the king ! 

" Yet my passion must wait anight, nor 

cool — 
For to-night the Envoy arrives from 

France 
Whose heart I unlock witli thyself, mj' 

tool. 

"I need tliee still and niiglit miss per- 
chance. 
To-day is not wliolly lost, beside, 
Witli its liope of my lady's countenance : 

" For I ride — what should I do but ride ? 

And passing her palace, if I list. 

May glance at its window — well betide ! "' 

So said, so done : nor the lady missed 
One ray that broke from the ardent 

brow, 
Nor a curl of tlie lips where the spirit 

kissed. 

Be sure that each renewed the a'ow, 
No morrow's sun should arise and set 
And leave them then as it left tliem 
now. 

But next day passed, and next day yet. 
With still fresh cause to wait one day 

more 
Ere each leaped over the parapet. 

And still, as love's brief morning wore. 
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigli. 
They found love not as it seemed before. 

They thought it would work infallibly. 
But not in despite of heaven and earth : 
The rose would blow when the storm 
passed by. 



Meantime they could profit in winter's 

dearth 
By store of fruits that supplant the rose : 
The world and its ways have a certain 

worth : 

And to press a point while these oppose 

Were simple policy ; better wait : 

We lose no friends and we gain no foes. 

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's 

fate. 
Who daily may ride and pass and look 
Where his lady wati^lies behind tlie 

grate ! 

And she — she watched the square like a 

book 
Holding one picture and only one, 
Which daily to find she undertook : 

When the picture was I'eached the book 

was done. 
And she turned from the picture at 

night to scheme 
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 

So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by 

gleam 
Tlie glory dropped from tlieir youth and 

love. 
And botli perceived they had dreamed a 

dream ; 

Which hovered as dreams do, still 

above : 
But who can take a dream for a truth ? 
Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove ! 

One day as the lady saw her youth 
Depart, and the silver thread that 

streaked 
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's 

tooth, 

The brow so puckered, the chin so 

peaked,— 
And wondered who the woman was. 
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked. 

Fronting lier silent in the glass — 
'■ Summon here," slie suddenly said, 
•' Before the rest of my old self pass, 

" Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, 
Wlio fashions the clay no love will 

cliange. 
And fixes a beauty never to fade. 



640 



BRITISH POETS 



'■ Let Robbia's crai't so apt ami strange 
Arrest the remains of 3'oung ami fair, 
And rivet them wliiletlie seasons range. 

" Make me a face on tlie window there, 
Waiting as ever, nmte the wliile, 
My love to pass below in the square ! 

" And let me think that it may beguile 
Dreary days whicli tlie dead must spend 
Down in their darkness under the aisle, 

" To sajs ' What matters it at the end ? 
I did no more while my heart was warm 
Than does that image, my pale-faced 
friend.' 

" Where is the use of the lip's red 

charm, 
The heaven of liair, the pride of the 

brow. 
And the blood tliat blues tlie inside 

arm — 

" Unle.ss we turn, as the soul knows liow, 
The earthly gift to an end divine? 
A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 

Bnt long ere Robbia's cornice, fine. 
With flowers and fruits wliich leaves en- 
lace. 
Was set where now is the empty slirine — 

(And, leaning out of a briglit blue space. 
As a ghost might lean from a chink of 

sky, 
The passionate pale lady's face- 
Eying ever, with earnest eye 
And quick-turned neck at its breathless 

stretch. 
Some one who ever is passing by — ) 

The dvike had sighed like the simplest 
wretch 

In Florence, "Youth — my dream es- 
capes ! 

Will its record stay ? " And he bade 
them fetch 

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes — 
" Can the soul, the will, die out of a 

man 
Ere his body find the grave that gapes ? 

" John of Douay shall effect my plan, 
Set me on liorseback here aloft. 
Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, 



"In the very square I have cro.ssed so 

oft: 
That men may admire, when future suns 
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, 

•' While the mouth and the brow stay 

brave in bronze — 
Admire and .say, ' When he was alive 
How he would take his pleasuie once ! ' 

'■ And it shall go liard but I contrive 
To listen the while, and huigli in my 

tomb 
At idleness which aspires to strive." 



So ! While these wait tlie trump of 

doom. 
How do their spirits pass, I wonder. 
Nights and days in the narrow room ? 

Still, I suppose, they sit and i^onder 
What a gift life was. ages ago, 
Six steps out of the cha]iel j'onder. 

Only they .see not God. I know, 

Nor all that chivalry of his, 

The soldier-saints who, row on row, 

Burn upward each to liis point of bli.ss — 
Since, the end of life being manifest. 
He liad burned his way through the 
world to this. 

I hear you reproach, " But delay was 

best. 
For their end was a crime." — Oh, a crime 

will do 
As well, I reply, to serve foi- a test, 

As a virtue golden through and through, 
Sufficient to vindicate itself 
And prove its worth at a moment's 
view ! 

Must a game be played for the sake of 

pelf ? 
Where a button goes, 't were an e]iigram 
To offer the stamp of the very Guelj)!!. 

The true has no value beyond the sham ; 
As well the counter as coin, I submit, 
Wlien your table's a hat. and your prize, 
a dram. 

Stake your counter as boldly every whit. 
Venture as warily, use the same skill. 
Do your best, whether winning or losing 
it, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



641 



If you choose to play ! — is my principle. 
Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life's set prize, be it what it will ! 

Tlie counter our lovers staked was lost 
.As surely as if it were lawful coin : 
And the sin I impute to each frustrate 
ghost 

Is — the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 
Tliough the end in sight was a vice, I 

say. 
You of the virtue (we issue join) 
How strive you ? De te, fabula ! 

1855. 

" CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK 
TOWER CAME" 

See Kdgar's song in Lear. 

My first thought was, he lied in every 
woi'd. 
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye 
Askance to watch tlie working of his 
lie 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and 
scored 
Its edge, at one more victim gained 
thereby. 

What else should he be set for, with his 
staff ? 
What, save to waylay with his lies, 

ensnare 
All travellers who might find him 
posted there. 
And ask the road? I guessed what 

skull-like laugh 
Would break, what crutch 'gin write 
my epitaph 
For pastime in the dusty thorough- 
fare, 

If at his counsel I should turn aside 
Into that ominous tract which, all 

agree. 
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquies- 
cingly 
I did turn as he pointed : neitlier pride 
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried. 
So much as gladness that some end 
might be. 

For, what with my whole world-wide 
wandering. 
What with my search drawn out 

through years, my hope 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 

41 



With that obstreperous joy success y 

would bring, — 
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 
My heart made, finding failure in its 

scope. 

As when a sick man very near to death 
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin 

and end 
The tears, and takes the farewell of each 

friend. 
And hears one bid the other go, draw 

breath 
Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he 

saith, 
" And the blow fallen no grieving can 

amend ; ") 

While some discuss if near the other 
graves 
Be room enough for this, and when a 

day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 
With care about the banners, scarves 

and staves : 
And still the man hears all, and only 
craves 
He may not shame such tender love 
and stay. 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest. 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been 

writ 
So many times among "The Band " — 
to wit. 
The knights who to the Dark Tower's 

search addressed 
Their steps — that just to fail as they, 
seemed best. 
And all the doubt was now — should I 
befit? 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him. 
That hateful cripple, out of his high- 
way 
Into the path he pointed. All the day 
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
Was settling to its close, yet shot one 
grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its 
estray. 

For mark ! no sooner was I fairlj" found 
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or 

two. 
Than, pausing to throw backward a 
last view 
O'er the safe road, 't was gone ; gray 
plain all round : 



P*t^iuA^ rn-^ 



-* '^f <> ^^^»<i»gfc/ 



Ji 



642 



BRITISH POETS 



Nothing but plain to the hoiizf)n's bound. 
I might go on ; naught else remained 
to do. 

So, on I went. I think I never saw 
Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing 

throve : 
For flowers — as well expect a cedar 
grove ! 
But cockle, spurge, according to tlieir 

law 
Might propagate their kind, with none 
to awe, 
You 'd think : a burr had been a treas- 
ure trove. 

No ! penury, inertness and grimace. 
In some strange sort, were tlie land's 

poi'tion. "See 
Or shut your ej^es," said Nature peev- 
ishly, 
" It nothing skills : I cannot help my 

case : 
'T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure 
this place. 
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners 
free." 

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk 
Above its mates, tlie head was chop- 
ped ; tlie bents 
Were jealous else. Wliat made those 
holes and rents 
In the dock's harsli swarth leaves, 

bi'uised as to balk 
All hope of greenness ? 't is a brute 
must walk 
Pashing their life out, with a brute's 
intents. 

As for tlie grass, it grew as scant as hair 
In leprosy ; thin dry blades pricked 

the mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded up 
with blood. 
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a- 

stare. 
Stood stupefied, however he came there : 
Thrust out past service from the 
devil's stud ! 

Alive? he might be dead for aught I 
know, 
With that red gaunt andcolloped neck 

a-strain. 
And shut eyes underneath the rusty 
mane ; 
Seldom went such grotesqueness with 
such woe ; 



I never saw a brute I hated so ; 

He must be wicked to deserve such 
pain. 

I shut my ej'es and turned them on my 
heart. 
As a man calls for wine before he 

fights, 
I asked one draught of earlier, happier 
sights, 
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 
Think first, fight afterwards — the sol- 
dier's art : 
One taste of the old time sets all to 
rights. 

Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening 
face 
Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 
bear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 
Tliat way he used. Alas, one night's 
disgrace ! 
Out went my heart's new fire and left 
it cold. 

Giles then, the soul of honoi- — there he 
stands 
Frank as ten years ago when knighted 

first. 
What honest man should dare (he 
said) he durst. 
Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! 

what hangman hands 
Pin to his breast a parchment? His 
own bands 
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and 
curst ! 

Better this present than a past like that ; 
Back therefore to my darkening path 



again 



No sound, no sight as far as eye could 
strain. 
Will the night send a howlet or a bat ? 
I asked : when something on the dismal 
flat 
Came to arrest my thoughts and 
change their train. 

A sudden little river crossed my path 
As unexpected as a serpent comes. 
No sluggish tide congenial to the 
glooms ; 
This, as it frothed by, might have been a 

bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the 
wrath 
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes 
and spumes. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



643 



So petty, yet so spiteful ! All along, 
Low scrubby alders kneeled down 

over it ; 
Drenched willows flung them liead- 
long in a fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : 
Tlie river which liad done them all tlie 
wrong, 
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred 
no whit. 

Whicli, while I forded, — good saints, 
how I feared 
To set my foot upon a dead man's 

clieek, 
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to 
seek 
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard ! 
— It may have been a water-rat I speared , 
But, ugh, it sounded like a baby's 
shriek. 

Glad was I wlien I reached tiie other 
bank. 
Now for a better country. Vain 

presage ! 
Who were the strngglers, what war 
did tlie.y wage, 
Wliose savage trample tluis could ])ad 

tlie dank 
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned 
tank, 
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — ■ 

The fight must so have seemed in that 
fell cirque. 
Wliat penned them there, with all (lie 

plain to choose ? 
No footprint leading to that liorrid 
mews. 
None oiit of it. Mad brewage set to 

work 
Tlieir brains, no doubt, like galley- 
slaves the Turk 
Pits for liis pastime. Christians against 
Jews. 

And more than that — a furlong on — 
why, there ! 
What bad use was that engine for, 

that wheel, 

Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit 

to reel [air 

Men's bodies out like silk ? with all the 

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware. 

Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth 

of steel. 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, 
once a wood, 



Next a marsh, it would seem, and now 

mere earth 
Desperate and done with : (so a fool 
finds mirth, 
Makes a tiling and then mars it, till his 

mood 
Changes and off he goes !) within a rood — 
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark 
black dearth. 

Now blotclies rankling, colored gay and 
grim. 
Now patclies where some leanness of 

the soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like 
boils ; 
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in 

liim 
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
Gaping at death, and dies while it 
recoils. 

And just as far as ever from the end ! 
Naught in the distance but the even- 
ing, naught 
To point my footstep further ! At 
the tliought. 
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom- 
friend. 

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing 
dragon-penned 
Tliat brushed my cap — perchance the 
guide I sought. 

For, looking up, aware I somehow gi-ew, \ 

' Spite of the dusk, the plain had given ' 

place / 

All round to mountains — with such / 

name to grace 

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen 

in view. 
How thus they had surprised me, — 
solve it, you ! 
How to get from them was no clearer 
case. 

Yet half I seemed to recognize some 
trick 
Of mischief happened to me, God 

knows when — 

In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, 

then, [nick 

Progress this way. When, in the very 

Of giving up, one time more, came a 

click [the den ! 

As when a trap shuts — you're inside 

Burningly it came on me all at once, 
This was the place ! those two hills on 
the right, * 



644 



BRITISH POETS 



Crouched like two bulls locked horn 
in horn in fight ; 
Wliile to the left, a tall scalped mountain 
/ ... Dunce, 

/ Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, 
/ After a life spent training for the 

[ sight ! 

Wliat in the midst lay but the Tower 
itself ? 
The round squat turret, blind as the 

fool's lieart, 
Built of brown stone, without a coun- 
terpart 
In the whole world. The tempest's 

mocking elf 
Points to the shipman thus the unseen 
shelf 
He strikes on, only when the timbers 
start. 

Not see ? because of night perhaps ? — 
why, day 
Came back again for that ! before it 

left 
The dying sunset kindled through a 
cleft : 
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay. 
Chin upon hand, to see the game at 
bay,— 
" Now stab and end the ci'eature — to 
the heft ! " 

Not hear ? when noise was everywhere ! 
it tolled 
Increasing like a bell. Names in my 

ears. 
Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — 
How such a one was strong, and such 

was bold, 
And sucli was fortunate, yet each of old 
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the 
woe of years. 

There they stood, ranged along the hill- 
sides, met 
To view the last of me, a living frame 
For one more picture ! in a sheet of 
flame 
I saw them and I knew them all. And 

yet 
Dauntless the slug-horn to mj' lips I set, 
And blew: '' CJiilde Roland to the 
DarTc Toiver came." 1855. 

v3 PRA LIPPO LIPPI 

I AM poor brother Lipjjo, by your leave ! 
You need not clap your torches to my 
face. 



Zooks, what 's to blame? you tliink you 

see a monk ! 
What, 't is past midnight, and you go 

the rounds. 
And here you catch me at an allej''s end 
Where sportive ladies leave their doors 

ajar? 
The Carmine 's my cloister : hunt it up. 
Do, — harry out, if you must show your 

zeal. 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong 

hole, 
And nip each softling of a wee white 

mouse, 
Weke, weke, that 's crept to keep him 

company ! 
Aha, you know your betters ! Then, 

you '11 take 
Your hand away that 's fiddling on my 

throat, 
And please to know me likewise. Who 

am I ? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a 

friend 
Three streets off — he 's a certain . . . how 

d' ye call ? 
Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici. 
I' the house that caps the corner. Boli ! 

you were best ! 
Remember and tell me, the day you 're 

hanged, 
How you affected such a gullet's-gripe ! 
But you, sir, it concerns you that your 

knaves 
Pick up a manner nor discredit you : 
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep 

the streets 
And count fair prize what conies into 

their net ? 
He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! 
Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make 

amends. 
Lord, I 'm not angry ! Bid your hang- 
dogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the 

health 
Of the munificent House that harbors 

me 
(And many more beside, lads! more 

beside !) 
And all 's come square again. I 'd like 

liis face — 
His, elbowing on his comrade in this 

door 
With the pike and lantern, — for the 

slave that holds 
Jolm Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 
With one hand (" Look you, now," as 
who should say) 



\ 



\^ 



N, 



6 



V 



ROBERT BROWNING 



645 



And his weapon in the other, yet un- 

vviped ! 
It 's not your chance to have a bit of 

chalk, 
A wood-coal or the like ? or you should 

see ! 
Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style nie 

so. 
\yhat, brother Lippo's doings, up and 

down 
You know them and they take you ? 

like enougli ! 
I saw tlie proper twinkle in your eye — 
"Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
Let 's sit and set things straight now, 

hip to haunch. 
Here 's spring come, and the nights one 

makes up bands 
To roam the town and sing our carnival. 
And I 've been three weeks shut within 

my mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints and 

saints 
And saints again. I could not paint all 

niglit — 
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresli 

air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little 

feet, 
A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and 

wliifts of song, — 
Flower o' tlie broom. 
Take away love, and our earth, is a tomb! 
Flower o' the quince, 
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since ? 
Flower o' the thyme — and so on. Round 

they went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner wlien 

a titter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moon- 
light, — three slim shapes, 
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, 

flesh and blood, 
That 's all I "m made of ! Into shreds it 

went, 
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet. 
All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots. 
There was a ladder ! Down I let myself. 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, 

and so dropped. 
And after them. I came up with the 

fun 
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, 

well met,- — 
Flotver o' the rose. 
If Fve been merry, what matter who 

knoivs ? 
And so as I was stealing back again 
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 



Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 
On Jerome knocking at his poor old 

breast 
With his great round stone to subdue 

the flesh. 
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! 
Thougli your eye twinkles still, you shake 

your head — 
Mine 's shaved — a monk, you say — the 

sting 's in that ! 
If Master Cosimo announced himself. 
Mum "s the word naturally ; but a monk ! 
Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, 

now ! 
I was a baby when my mother died 
And fatlier died and left me in the street. 
I starved tliere, God knows how, a year 

or two 
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and 

sliucks. 
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty 

day, 
My stomach being empty as your hat, 
Tlie wind doubled me up and down I 

went. 
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one 

hand, 
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) 
And so aloTig the wall, over the bridge. 
By the straight cut to the convent. Six 

words there. 
While I stood numching mj' first bread 

that month : 
" So, boy, you're minded," quoth the 

good fat father, 
Wiping liis own mouth, 't was refection- 
time, — 
" To quit tliis very miserable world ? 
Will you renounce" . . . "the mouth- 
ful of bread ? " thought I ; 
By no means ! Brief, they made a monk 

of me ; 
I did renounce the world, its pride and 

greed , 
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking- 
house. 
Trash, such as these poor devils of 

Medici 
Have given their hearts to — all at eight 

years old. 
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be 

sure, 
'T was not for nothing — the good bellyful. 
The warm serge and the rope that goes 

all round. 
And day-long blessed idleness beside ! 
' ' Let 's see what the urchin 's fit for " 

— that came next. 
Not overmuch their wnv. I niust confess. 



646 



BRITISH POETS 



Such a to-do ! They tried nie witli their 

books ; 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in 

pure waste ! 
Flower o' the clove. 
All the Latin I construe is " anio,^' I 

love ! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in 

the streets 
Eight years together, as my fortune was, 
Watching folk's faces to know who will 

fling 
The bit of half-stripped grape- bunch he 

desires, 
And who will curse or kick him for his 

pains, — 
Which gentleman processional and fine. 
Holding a candle to tlie Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and 

catch 
The droppings of the wax to sell again. 
Or holla for the Eight and have him 

whipped, — 
How say I ? — nay, which dog bites, 

which lets drop 
His bone fi'om the heap of oflfal in the 

street, — 
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp 

alike. 
He leai'ns the look of things, and none 

the less 
For admonition from the Jumger-pinch. 
I had a store of such remarks, be sure. 
Which, after I found leisure, turned to 

use. 
I drew men's faces on my copy-books. 
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's 

marge, 
Joined legs and arms to the long music- 
notes. 
Found eyes and nose and cliin for A's 

and Bs, 
And made a string of pictures of tlie 

world 
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and 

noun , 
On the wall, the bench, the door. Tlie 

monks looked black. 
"Nay," quoth tlie Prior, "turn him 

out. d' ye say ? 
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a 

lark. 
What if at last we get our man of parts. 
We Carmelites, like tliose Camaldolese 
And Preaching Friars, to do our church 

up fine 
And put the front on it that ought to 

be!" 
And liereupon he bade me daub away. 



Thank jou ! my head being crammed, 

tlie walls a blank. 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First, everj' sort of monk, the black and 

wliite, 
I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk 

at chiu-ch. 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle- 
ends, — 
To the. breathless fellow at the altar-foot, 
Fresh from liis murder, safe and sitting 

there 
Witii the little children round him in a 

row 
Of admiration, half for his beard and 

half 
For tliat white anger of his victim's son 
Sliaking a fist at him with one fierce 

arm. 
Signing himself with the other because 

of Christ 
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only 

this 
After the passion of a thousand years) 
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her 

head, 
(Which tiie intense eyes looked througli) 

came at eve 
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf. 
Her i:)air of earrings and a buncli of 

flowers 
(Tlie brute took growling), prayed, and 

so was gone. 
I painted all, then cried " 'T is ;isk and 

liave ; 
Choose, for more 's readj^ ! " — laid the 

ladder flat. 
And showed my covered bit of cloister- 
wall, 
Tlie monks closed in a circle and praisetl 

loud 
Till checked, taught wliat to see and not 

to see. 
Being simple bodies. — •' That's the very 

man ! 
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the 

dog ! 
That woman 's like the Prior's niece who / 

comes y i 

To care aboiit his asthma : it 's tlie life ! ". '' 
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared 

and funked ; 
Their betters took their turn to see and 

say : 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face 
And stopped all that in no time. ' ' How ? 

what's here ? |us all ! 

Quite from the mark of painting, bless 



ROBERT BROWNING 



647 



Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the 

true 
As much as pea and pea ! it 's devil's- 

game ! 
Your business is not to catch men with 

show, 
With homage to the perishable clay, 
But lift them over it, ignore it all. 
Make them forget there 's such a thing 

as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of 

men — 
Man's sovil, and it 's a fire, smoke . . . 

no, it 's not . . . 
It 's vapor done up like a new-born 

babe — 
(In that shape when you die it leaves 

your mouth) 
It 's . . . well, wl\at matters talking, 

it 's the soul ! 
Give us no more of body than shows 

soul ! 
Here 's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising 

God, 
That sets us praising, — why not stop 

with him ? 
Why put all thoughts of praise out of 

our head 
With wonder at lines, colors, and what 

not? 
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and 

arms ! 
Rub all out, try at it a second time. 
Oh, that white smallish female witli the 

breasts, 
She 's just my niece . . . Herodias, I 

would say, — 
Who went and danced and got men's 

heads cut off ! 
Have it all out ! " Now, is this sense, I 

ask ? 
A fine wa}' to paint soul, by painting 

body 
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go 

further 
And can't fare worse ! Tims, yellow 

does for wliite 
When what you put for yellow 's simply 

black. 
And an J' sort of meaning looks intense 
When all beside itself means and looks 

naught. 
Why can't a painter lift each foot in 

turn. 
Left foot and right foot, go a double 

step. 
Make his flesh liker and his soul more 

like, [face, 

Both in their order ? Take the prettiest 



The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is 

it so pretty 
You can't discover if it means hope, 

fear. 
Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with 

these ? 
Suppose I 've made her eyes all right 

and blue. 
Can't I take breath and try to add life's 

flash. 
And then add soul and heighten them 

three-fold? 
Or say there 's beauty with no soul at 

all— 
(I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 
If you get simple beauty and naught else. 
You get about the best thing God in- 
vents : 
That 's somewhat : and you '11 find the 

soul you have missed. 
Within yourself, when you return him 

thanks. 
" Rub all out ! " Well, well, there 'smy 

life, in short. 
And so the thing lias gone on ever since. 
I 'm grown a man no doubt, I 've broken 

bounds : 
You should not take a fellow eight years 

old 
And make him swear to never kiss the 

girls. 
I 'm my own master, paint now as I 

please — 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner- 
house ! 
Lord, it 's fast holding by the rings in 

front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes 

than just 
To plant a flag in. or tie up a horse ! 
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old 

grave eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work. 
The heads shake still — " It "s art's de- 
cline, my son ! 
You 're not of the true painters, great 

and old ; 
Brother Angelico 's the man, you '11 find ; 
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer : 
Fag on at flesh, you '11 never make the 

third ! " 
Flower o' the pine. 
You keep your mistr . . . vianners, and 

I'll stick to mine! 
I 'm not the third, then : bless us, they 

must know ! 
Don't you think they 're the likeliest to 

know, [my rage, 

They with their Latin ? So, I swallow 



648 



BRITISH* POETS 



Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight. 

and paint 
To please them — sometimes do and some- 
times don't ; 
For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to 

come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my 

saints — 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the 

world — 
(Floiver o' the Peach, 
Death for us all, and his oivn life for 

each!) 
And my whole soul revolves, the cup 

runs over. 
The world and life 's too big to pass for 

a dream. 
And I do these wild things in sheer 

despite. 
And play the fooleries you catch me at, 
In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out 

at grass 
After hard years, throws up his stiff 

heels so. 
Although the miller does not preach to 

him 
The only good of grass is to make cliaff . 
What would men have ? Do they like 

grass or no — 
May they or may n't they ? all I want 's 

the thing 
Settled forever one way. As it is. 
You tell too many lies and hurt your- 
self : 
You don't like what you only like too 

much. 
You do like what, if given you at your 

word , 
You find abundantly detestable. 
For me, I think I speak as I was taught ; 
I always see the garden and God there 
A-making man's wife : and, my lesson 

learned, 
The value and significance of flesh, 
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 

You understand me : I 'm a beast, I 

know. 
But see, now — why, I see as certainly 
As that the morning-star 's about to 

shine, . . ' 

What will liap some day. We "ve a 

youngster here 
Comes to our convent, studies wliat I do, 
Slouches and stares ' and lets no atom 

drop : 
His name is Guidi — he "11 not mind tlie 

monks — [talk — 

They .call him Hulking Tom, lie lets them 



He picks my practice up — he '11 paint 

apace. 
I hope so— though I never live so long. 
I know wliat's sure to follow. You be 

judge ! 
You speak no Latin more than I, belike; 
However, you 're my man, you 've seen 

tlie world 
— The beauty and the wonder and the 

power. 
The shapes of things, their colors, liglits 

and shades. 
Changes, surprises, — and God made it 

all! 
— For what ? Do you feel thankful, ay 

or no. 
For this fair town's face, yonder rivers 

line, 
The mountain round itand the sky above, 
Much more the figures of man, woman, 

child, 
These are the frame to? What 's it all 

about ? 
To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt 

upon. 
Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! — 

you say. \ --^ 

But why not do as well as say, — paint \ 

these 
JustJisHlrey are, careless what comes of / 

A^t^ - ' ' 

God's works — paint any one, and count 'j 

it crime 
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His 

works / 

Are here already : nature is complete : / 
Suppose you reproduce her — (which you 

can't) 
There 's no advantage ! you must beat 

her, tlien." 
For, don't you mark ? we 're made so 

that we love 
First when we see them painted, things 

we liave passed 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to 

see ; 
And so they are better, painted — better 

to us. 
Which is the same thing. Art was 

given for that ; 
God uses us to help each other so. 
Lending our minds out. Have you no- 
ticed, now. 
Your cullion's hanging face ? A bit of 

chalk. 
And trust me but you should, though! 

How mtich more. 
If I drew higlier things with the same 

trutli ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



649 



That were to take the Priors pulpit- 

plaoe, 
Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, 
It makes me mad to see what men shall 

do 
And we in our graves ! Tliis world 's 

no blot for us. 
Nor blank ; it means intensely, and 

means good : 
To find its meaning is my meat and 

drink. 
" Ay, but you don't so instigate to 

prayer ! " 
Strikes in the Prior : " when your mean- 
ing 's plain 
It does not say to folk — -remember 

matins, 
Or, mind you fast next Friday ! " Why, 

for this 
What need of art at all ? A skull and 

bones, 
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, 

what 's best, 
A bell to chime the hour with, does as 

well. 
I painted a Saint Laurence six months 

since 
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine 

style : 
" How looks my painting, now the scaf- 
fold 's down ? " 
I ask a brother : " Hugely," he returns — 
" Already not one phiz of your three 

slaves 
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted 

side, 
But 's sci'atched and prodded to our 

heart's content. 
The pious people liave so eased their own 
With coming to say prayers there in a 

rage : 
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 
Expect another job this time next year, 
For pit}' and religion grow i' the 

crowd — 
Your painting serves its purpose ! " 

Hang the fools ! 

— That is — you '11 not mistake an idle 

word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God 

w^ot, 
Tasting the air this spicy night which 

turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti 

wine ! 
Oh, the church knt)ws ! don't niisreport 

me, now ! 
It 's natural a poor monk out of boimds 



Should have his apt word to excuse 

himself : 
And harken how I plot to make 

amends. 
I liave bethought me : I shall paint a 

piece 
. . . There 's for you ! Give me six 

months, then go, see 
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! Bless 

the nuns ! 
They want a cast o' my office. I shall 

paint 
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel- 
brood. 
Lilies and vestments and white faces, 

sweet 
As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
When ladies crowd to Chui'ch at mid- 
summer. 
And then i' the fi'ont, of course a saint 

or two — 
Saint John, because he saves the Flo- 
rentines, 
Saint Ambrose, wlio puts down in black 

and wliite 
The convent's friends and gives them a 

long day. 
And Job, I must have him there past 

mistake. 
The man of Uz (and Us without the z. 
Painters who need his patience). Well, 

all these 
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 
Out of a corner when you least expect, 
As one by a dark stair into a great light, 
Music and talking, who but Lippo ! 

I !— 
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck — 

I 'm the man ! 
Back I shrink — what is this I see and 

hear ? 
I, caught up with my monk's-things by 

mistake, 
My old serge gown and rope tliat goes 

all-round, 
I, in this presence, this pure company ! 
Where 's a hole, where 's a corner for 

escape ? 
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 
Forward, puts out a soft palm — " Not so 

fast ! " 
— Addresses the celestial presence, 

" nay— - 
He made you and devised you, after all. 
Though he 's none of you ! Could Saint 

John tliere draw-- 
His camel-liair make up a painting- 
brush {• 



650 



BRITISH POETS 



We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
Iste perfecit opus ! " So, all smile — 
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 
Under the cover of a hundred wings 
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when 

you "re gay 
And play Jiot cockles, all the doors being 

shut, 
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 
The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle 

off 
To some safe bench behind, not letting 

go 
The palm of her, the little lily thing 
That spoke the good word for me in the 

nick, 
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, 

I wovild say. 
And so all 's saved for me, and for the 

church 
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months 

hence ! 
Your hand, sir, and good-by : no lights. 

no lights ! 
The street 's huslied, and I know my 

own way back, 
Don't fear me ! There 's tlie gray be- 
ginning. Zooks ! ly."),). 

^ ANDREA DEL SARTO 

CALLED " THE FAULTLESS PAINTER " 

But do not let us quarrel any more, 
No, my Lucrezia ; bear witli me for 

once : 
Sit down and all shall happen as you 

wish. 
You turn your face, but does it bring 

your heart ? 
I'll work then for your friend's friend, 

never fear. 
Treat his own subject after his own way. 
Fix his own time, accept too his own 

price. 
And shut tlie mone}^ into this small hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it ? 

tenderly ? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow. 

Love ! 
I often am much wearier than you think, 
This evening more tlian usual, and it 

seems 
As if — forgive now — should you let me 

sit 
Here by the window with your hand in 

mine 
And look a half-hour fortli on Fiesole, 
Both of one mind, as married people use, 



Quietly, quietly the evening through, 
I might get up to-morrow to my work 
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us trj'. 
To-morrow, how you sliall be glad for 

this ! 
Your soft hand is a woman of itself. 
And mine the man's bared breast she 

curls inside. 
Don't count tlie time lost, neither ; you 

must serve 
For each of the five pictures we require : 
It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — 
M\^ serpentining beauty, rounds on 

rounds ! 
— How could you ever jirick those per- 
fect ears. 
Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so 

sweet — 
My face, my moon, my everybody's 

moon , 
Which ever\'body looks on and calls his, 
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, 
While she looks — no one's : very dear, 

no less. 
You smile ? why, there 's my picture 

ready made. 
There 's what we painters call our har- 
mony ! 
A common grayness silvers everything, — 
All in a twilight, you and I alike 
— You, at tlie point of jour first pride in 

me 
(Tliat 's gone you know), — but I, at 

every point ; 
My youth, my hope, my art, being all 

toned down 
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
There 'sthe bell clinking from the chapel- 
top ; 
Tliat length of convent-wall across the 

way 
Holds the trees safer, huddled more in- 
side ; 
The last monk leaves the garden ; days 

decrease, 
And autumn grows, autumn in every- 

tiiing. 
Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape 
As if I saw alike my work and self 
And all that I was born to be and do, 
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's 

hand. 
How strange now looks the life he makes 

us lead ; 
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 
I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie I 
Tliis chamber for example — turn your 
head — [stand 

All that 's behind us ! You don't under- 



ROBERT BROWNING 



651 



Nor care to uiulerstaud about 1113" art, 
But you cau hear at least when people 

speak : 
And tliat cartoon, the second from the 

door 
— It is the thing, Love ! so such things 

should be — 
Behold Madonna ! — ^I am bold to say. 
I can do with my pencil what I know. 
What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are 

Who listened to the Legate's talk last 

week, 
And just as much they used to say in 

France. 
At any rate 't is easj^, all of it ! 
No sketciies first, no studies, that 's long 

past : 
I do wliat man}' dream of all their lives, 
— Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to 

do. 
And fail in doing. I could count twenty 

such 
On twice your fingers, and not leave this 

town, 
Who strive — you don't know how tlie 

others strive 
To paint a little thing like that you 

smeared 
Carelessly passing with your robes 

afloat, — 
Yet do much less, so much less, Some- 
one says, 
(I know his name, no matter) — so much 

less ! 
Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am 

judged. 
There burns a ti'uer light of God in them. 
In their vexed beating stuffed and 

stopped-up brain. 
Heart, or wliate'er else, than goes on to 

prompt 
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's 

hand of mine. 
Their works drop groundward, but them- 
selves, I know. 
Reach many a time a heaven that 'sshut 

to me, 
Enter and take their place there sure 

enough. 
Though they come back and cannot tell 

the world. 
]\ry works are nearer heaven, but I sit 

here. 
The sudden blood of these men ! at a 

word — 



Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it 

boils too. 
I, painting from myself and to myself, 
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's 

blame 
Or their praise either. Somebody re- 
marks 
INIorello's ovitline there is wrongly traced. 
His hue mistaken ; what of that ? or 

else. 
Rightly traced and well ordered ; what 

of that? 
Speak as they please, what does the 

mountain care? 
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his 

grasp, 
Or what 's a heaven for? All is silver- 
gray 
Placid and perfect with my art : the 

worse ! 
I know both what I want and what might 

gain. 
And j'et how profitless to know, to sigh 
"Had I been two, another and myself. 
Our head would ha\'e o'erlooked the 

world ! " No doubt. 
Yonder 's a work now, of that famous 

youth 
Tli£ Urbinate who died five years ago. 
("T is copied. George Vasari sent it me.) 
Well. I can fancy how lie did it all. 
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes 

to see, 
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish 

him, 
Above and through his art — for it gives 

way ; 
That arm is wrongly put — and there 

again — 
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines. 
Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, 
He means right — that, a child ma}^ un- 
derstand. 
Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 
But all the play, the insight and the 

stretch — 
Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore 

out ? 
Had you enjoined them on me, given 

me soul. 
We might have risen to Rafael, I and 

you! 
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I 

think — 
More than I merit, yes. by many times. 
But had j'ou— oh, with the same perfect 

brow. 
And perfect eyes, and moretlian perfect 

mouth, 



65^ 



BRITISH POETS 



And the low voice my soul hears, as a 

bird 
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the 

snai'e — 
Had you, with these the same, but 

brought a mind ! 
Some women do so. Had tlie moutli 

there urged 
" God and the glory ! never care for gain, 
The present by tlie future, wJiat is that? 
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 
Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three I " 
I might have done it for you. So it 

seems : 
Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 
Beside, incentives come from the soul's 

self; 
The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? 
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? 
In this world, who can do a thing, will 

not ; 
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 
Yet the will 's somewhat — somewliat, 

too, the power— 
And thus we half-men struggle. At tlie 

end, 
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
'T is safer for me, if the award be strict. 
That I am something underrated here. 
Poor this long while, despised, to speak 

the truth. 
I dared not, do you know, leave home 

all day. 
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
The best is when they pass and look 

aside ; 
But they speak sometimes ; I must bear 

it all. 
Well may they speak ! That Francis, 

that first time. 
And that long festal year at Fontaine- 

bleau ! 
I surel}'^ then could sometimes leave the 

ground. 
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 
In that humane great monarch's golden 

look, — 
One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
Over his mouth's good mark that made 

the smile. 
One arm about my shoulder, round my 

neck. 
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
I painting proudly with his breath on 

rae, 
All his court round him, seeing with his 

eyes. 
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire 

of souls 



Profuse, my hand kept plying by those 

hearts, — 
And, best of all, this, this, this face be- 
yond. 
This in the background, waiting on my 

work, 
To crown the issue with a last reward ! 
A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? 
And had you not grown restless . . . but 

I know — 
'T is done and past ; "t was right, mj^ 

instinct said ; 
Too live the life grew, golden and not 

gi-ay, 
And I 'm the weak-ejed bat no sun 

should tempt 
Out of the grange whose four walls 

make his world. 
How could it end in any other way ? 
You called me, and I came home to your 

heart. 
The triumph was — to reach and staj- 

there ; since 
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? 
Let my hands frame your face in your 

hair's gold. 
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 
" Rafael did this. Andrea painted that : 
The Roman's is tlie better when you pray. 
But still the other's Virgin was his 

wife "— 
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 
Both pictures in your presence ; clearer 

grows 
My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
Said one day Agnolo, his very self. 
To Rafael ... I have known it all these 

years ... 
(When the young man was flaming out 

his thoughts 
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see. 
Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
" Friend, there 's a certain sorry little 

scrub 
Goes up and down our Florence, none 

cares how, 
Who, were he set to plan and execute 
As yovi are, pricked on by your popes 

and kings. 
Would bring the sweat into that brow 

of yours ! " 
To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is 

wrong. 
I hardly dare . . . yet, only yovi to see, 
Give the chalk here — quick, thus the 

line should go ! 
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it 

out! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



653 



Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 
(VVhathe? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
Do you forget already words lilce tiiose ?) 
If really there was such a chance, so 

lost,— 
Is, wlvether you 're — not grateful — but 

more pleased. 
Well, let me think so. And you smile 

indeed ! 
This hour has been an hour ! Another 

smile ? 
If you would sit thus by me every night 
I should work better, do you compre- 
hend ? 
I mean that I should earn more, give 

you more. 
See, it is settled dusk now ; there 's a 

star ; 
Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show 

the wall. 
The cue-owls speak the name we call 

them by. 
Come from the window, love, — come in, 

at last, 
Inside the melancholy little house 
We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
King Francis may forgive me : oft at 

nights 
When I look up from painting, eyes tired 

out, 
The walls become illumined, bi-ick from 

brick 
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright 

gold. 
That gold of his I did cement them with ! 
Let us but love each other. Must you go ? 
That Cousin liere again? he waits out- 
side ? 
Must see you — you, and not with me ? 

Those loans? 
More gaming debts to pay ? you smiled 

for that ? 
Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more 

to spend ? 
While hand and eye and something of a 

heart 
Are left me, work 's my ware, and 

what 's it wortli ? 
I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
Tlie gray remainder of the evening out. 
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
How I could paint, were I but back in 

France, 
One picture, just one more — the Virgin's 

face. 
Not yours this time ! I want you at raj' 

side 
To hear tliem — tliat is, Michel Agnolo — 
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 



Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your 

friend. 
I take the subjects for his corridor, 
Finish the portrait out of hand — there, 

there. 
And throw him in another thing or two 
If he demurs ; tlie whole should prove 

enough 
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. 

Beside. 
What's better and what's all I care 

about, 
Get you the thirteen soudi for the ruff ! 
Love, does that please you ? Ah, but 

what does he. 
The Cousin ! what does he to please you 

more ? 

I am grown peaceful as old age to- 

niglit. 
I regret little, I would change still less. 
Since tliere my jjast life lies, why alter 

it? 
Tlie very wrong to Francis ! — it is true 
I took his coin, was tempted and com- 
plied. 
And built this house and sinned, and all 

is said. 
My father and my mother died of want. 
Well, had I riches of my own ? 3'ou see 
How one gets rich ! Let each one bear 

his lot. 
They were born poor, lived poor, and 

poor they died ; 
And I have labored somewhat in my 

time 
And not been paid profusely. Some 

good son 
Paint my two liundred pictures — let him 

try ! 
No doubt, there's something strikes a 

balance. Yes. 
You loved me quite enougli, it seems 

to-night. 
This must suffice me here. Wliat would 

one have ? 
In heaven, perliaps, new chances, one 

more chance — 
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
dieted on each side by tlie angel's reed. 
For Leonard. Rafael, Agnolo and me 
To cover — the three first without a-wife. 
While I have mine ! So — still they 

overcome 
Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I 

choose. 

Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my 
Love. 1855. 



654 



BRITISH POETS 



ONE WORD MORE.i 

,^ TO E. B. B. 

London, September, 1855. 
I 

There they are, my fifty men and 

women 
Naming me the fifty poems finished ! 
Tiike them. Love, the book and me 

together : 
Where the iieart lies, let the brain lie 

also. 

II 

Rafael made a century of sonnets, 
Made and wrote them in a certain 

volume 
Dinted witli the silver-pointed pencil 
Else he only used to draw- Madonnas : 
These, the worhl miglit view — but one, 

the volume. 
W^iio that one, you ask ? Your heart 

instructs you. 
Did she live and love it all her lifetime ? 
Did she drop, Ins lady of the sonnets. 
Die, and let it drop beside lier pillow 
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving. 
Cheek, the world was wont to hail a 

painter's, 
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a 

poet's ? 

Ill 

You and I would rather read that 

volume, 
(Taken to his beating bosom by it) 
Lean and list tlie bosom-beats of Rafael, 
Would we not ? than wonder at Madon- 
nas — 
Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, 
Her, that visits Florence in a vision. 
Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre — 
Seen by us and all the world in circle. 

IV 

You and I will never read that volume. 
Guido Reni. like his own eye's apple 
Guarded long the treasure-book and 

loved it. 
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna 
Cried, and the world cried too, " Ours, 

the treasure ! " 
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 

1 The last poem of the Collection Men and 
Women, two volumes, published in 1855, and 
containinfic a large part of Browning's greatest 
work. Here, for once. Browning speaks in his 
own person. 



Dante once prepared to jjaint an angel:' 
Whom to please? You whisper " Bea- 
trice." 
While he mused and traced it and re- 
traced it, 
(Perad venture with a pen corroded 
Still bv drops of that hot ink he dipped 

for, 
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the 

wicked. 
Back he held the brow and pricked its 

stigma. 
Bit into the live man's flesh for parch- 
ment, 
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing 

rankle, 
Let the wretch go festering through 

Florence) — 
Dante, who loved well because he hated. 
Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 
Dante standing, studying his angel. — 
In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 
Says he — "Certain people of import- 
ance " 
(Such he gave liis daily dreadful line to) 
"Entered and would seize, forsooth, the 

poet. ■' 
Says the poet — " Then I stopped my 
painting." 



You and I wovild rather see that angel. 
Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 
Would we not.'' — than read a fresh 
Inferno. 



You and I will never see tliat picture. 
While he mused on love and Beatrice, 
While lie softened o'er his outlined angel. 
In they broke, those " people of import- 
ance : " 
We and Bice bear the loss forever. 

VIII 

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's pic- 
ture? 
This: no artist lives and loves, that longs 

not 
Once, and only once, and for one only, 
(Ah, the prize!) to find his love a lan- 
guage 
Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — 
Using nature that's an art to others. 
Not, this one time, art that's turned his 

nature. 
Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



655 



None but would forego his proper 

dowry, — 
Does he paint ? he fain would write a 

poem , — 
Does he write? he fain would paint a 

picture, 
Put to proof art alien to the artist's, 
Once, and only once, and for one oidy. 
So to be the man and leave the artist, 
Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's 

sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's 

abatement ! 
He who smites the rock and spreads the 

water. 
Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath 

him. 
Even he, the minute makes immortal, 
Proves, perchance, but mortal in the 

minute. 
Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
While he smites, how can he but I'e 

member, 
So he smote before, in such a peril. 
When they stood and mocked-^"' Shall 

smiting help us ? " 
When the}"^ drank and sneered — "A 

stroke is easj' ! " 
When they wiped their mouths and went 

their journey, 
Throwing him for thanks — " But drouglit 

was pleasant." 
Thus old memories mar the actual 

triumph ; 
Thus the doing savors of disrelish ; 
Thus^achievement lacks a gracious some- 
what ; 
O'er-importuned brows becloud the 

mandate. 
Carelessness or consciousness — the ges- 
ture. 
For he bears an ancient wrong about him. 
Sees and knows again those plialanxed 

faces. 
Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed 

pi'elude — 
" How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, 

and save us?" 
Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — 
" Egypt's flesh-pots — nay, the drought 

was better." 



Oh, tlie crowd must have emphatic 
warrant ! 

Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven bril- 
liance. 



Riglit-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial 

fiat. 
Never dares the man put oft" the prophet. 



Did he love one face fiom out the 

thousands, 
(Were she Jethro's daughter, white and 

wifely, 
Were slie but the Ethiopian bondslave.) 
He would envy yon dumb patient camel. 
Keeping a reserve of scanty water 
jMeant to save his own life in the desert ; 
Ready in the desert to deliver 
(Kneeling down to let his breast be 

opened ) 
Hoard and life together for his mistress. 



I sliall never, in the years remaining. 
Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you 

statues. 
Make you music that should all-express 

me ; 
So it seems : I stand on my attainment. 
This of verse alone, one life allows me ; 
Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 
Other heights in other lives, God willing : 
All the gifts from all the heights, your 

own. Love ! 



Yet a semblance of resource avails us — 
Shade so finely touclie<l. love's sense must 

seize it. 
Take these lines, look lovingly and 

nearly. 
Lines I write the first time and the last 

time. 
He who works in fresco, steals a hair- 
brush, 
Cvu'bs tlie liberal hand, subservient 

proudly, 
Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, 
IMakes a strange art of an art familiar. 
Fills his lady's missal-marge with 

flowerets. 
He wiio blows through bronze, may 

breathe through silver. 
Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 
He who writes, may write for once as I 

do. 

XIV 

Love, you saw me gather men . and 

women, 
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy. 
Enter each and all, and vise their service. 



656 



BRITISH POETS 



Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a 

poem. 
Hardly shall I tell my joys and soi'rows, 
Hope and fears, belief and disbelieving : 
I am mine and j^ours — the rest be all 

men's, 
Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. 
Let me sj^eak this once in my true per- 
son. 
Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, 
Though the fruit of speech be just this 

sentence : 
Pray you, look on these my men and 

women, 
Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; 
Where my heart lies, let my brain lie 

also ! 
Poor the speech ; be how I speak, for all 

things. 

XV 

Not but that you know me ! Lo, the 

moon's self ! 
Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 
Still we find her face, the thrice-trans- 
figured. 
Curving on a sky imbrued with color, 
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight. 
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's- 

breadth. 
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and 

rounder. 
Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 
Now, apiece of her old self, impoverished. 
Hard to greet, she traverses the house- 
roofs. 
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, 
(xoes dispiritedly, glad to finish. 



What, there's nothing in the moon note- 
worthy ? 
Nay : for if that moon could love a mortal, 
Use, to charm him ^so to fit a fancy), 
All her magic ("t is the old sweet mythos), 
Siie would turn a new side to her mortal, 
Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, 

steersman — 
Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. 
Blind to Galileo on his tvirret. 
Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — him, 

even ! 
Think, the wonder of the moonstruck 

•mortal — 
When she turns round, comes again in 

heaven, 
Opens out anew for worse or better ! 



Proves she like some portent of an ic^e- 

berg 
Swimming full upon the ship it founders. 
Hungry with huge teeth of splintered 

crystals ? 
Proves she as the paved work of a sap- 
phire 
Seen by Moses when he climbed the 

mountain ? 
Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu 
Climbed and saw the ver}^ God. the 

Highest, 
Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. 
Like the bodied heaven in his clearness 
Shone the stone, the sapphire of that 

paved work, 
When they ate and drank and saw God 

also ! 



What were seen ? None knows, none 

ever shall know. 
Onl}' this is sure— the sight were other, 
Not the moon's same side, born late in 

Florence, 
Dying now impoverished here in London. 
God be thanked, the meanest of his 

creatures 
Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the 

world with, 
One to show a woman when he loves her ! 



This I say of me, but tliink of you. Love ! 
This to you — yourself my moon of poets ! 
Ail, but that 's the world's side, there 's 

the wonder. 
Thus they see you, praise you, think 

they know you ! 
There, in turn I stand with them and 

praise you — 
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 
But the best is when I glide from out 

them. 
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight. 
Come out on the other side, tlie novel 
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed 

of. 
Where I hush and bless myself with 

silence. ' 



Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 
Oh. their Dante of the dread Inferno. 
Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing 

it. 
Drew one angel — borne, see, on my 

bosom ! 

R. B. 1855. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



657 



1/ BEN KARSHOOK'S WISDOM 



" Would a man 'scape the rod ? " 
Rabbi Ben Karsliook saith, 

" See that he tmn to God 

The day before his death." 

" Ay. could a niaii inquire 

When it sliall come ! " I say. 
The Rabbi's eye shoots fire^ 
" Then let liini turn to-daj"- ! " 



Quoth a young Sadducee : 

•' Reader of many rolls. 
Is it so certain we 

Have, as they tell us, souls?" 

" Son, there is no reply ! " 

Tlie Rablji bit his beard : 
" Certain, a soul liave / — 

We may have none,'' he sneered. 

Tluis Karshook, the Hiram's-Hanimer, 
The Right-hand Temple-column, 

Tauglit babes in grace their grammar. 
And struck tlie simple, solemn. 

1856. 

AMONG THE ROCKS 

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old 

earth. 
This autumn morning ! How he sets 

his bones 
To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees 

and feet 
For the ripple to run over in its 

mirth ; 
Listening the while, where on the heap 

of stones 
The wliite breast of the sea-lark twitters 

sweet. 

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, 
true ; 
Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles 
and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your 

love. 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well 
for you : 
Make the low nature better by your 
throes ! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain 
above!" 1864. 

42 



ABT VOGLER 

(after he has been extemporizing 
upon the musical instrument of his 
invention) 

Would that the structure brave, the 
manifold music I build. 
Bidding my organ obej', calling its 
keys to their work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a 
touch, as when Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of 
demons that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end 
and of aim. 
Adverse, each from the other heaven- 
high, hell-deep removed,— 
Should rush into siglit at once as he 
named tlie ineffable Name, 
And pile liiin a palace straight, to pleas- 
ure the ]n-incess he loved ! 

Would it inight tarry like his. the beau- 
tiful building of mine. 
This which my keys in a crowd 
pressed and importuned to raise ! 
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would 
dispart now and now combine. 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten 
their master his praise ! 
And one would bury his brow with a 
blind plunge down to hell, 
Burrou- awhile and build, broad on 
the roots of things. 
Then up again swim into sight, having 
based me my palace well. 
Founded it. fearless of flame, flat on 
the nether springs. 

And another would mount and march, 
like the excellent minion he was. 
Ay, another and yet another, one 
crowd but with many a crest. 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as 
transparent as glass. 
Eager to do and die, yield each his 
place to the rest : 
For higher still and higher (as a runner 
tips with fire. 
When a great illumination surprises a 
festal night — 
Outlined round and round Rome's dome 
from space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and 
the pride of my soul was in sight. 

In sight ? Not half ! for it seemed, it 
was certain, to match man's birth. 



658 



BRITISH POETS 



Nature in turn conceived, obeying an 
impulse as I ; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, 
made effort to reach the earth. 
As the earth had done her best, in my 
passion, to scale the sky : 
Novel splendors burst forth, grew fami- 
liar and dwelt with mine, 
Not a point nor peak but found and 
fixed its wandering star ; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and thej' 
did not pale nor pine, 
For earth had attained to heaven, 
there was no more near nor far. 

Nay more ; for there wanted not who 

walked in the glare and glow, 
Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh 

from the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a 

kindlier wind should blow. 
Lured now to begin and live, in a 

house to their liking at last ; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have 

passed through the body and gone. 
But were back once more to breathe 

in an old world worth their new : 
What never had been, was now ; what 

was, as it shall be anon ; 
And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? 

for I was made perfect too. 

All through my keys that gave their 
sounds to a wish of my soul. 
All through my soul that praised as its 
wish flowed visibly fortli. 
All through music and me! For think, 
had I painted the whole. 
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor 
tlie process so womler-worth : 
Had 1 written tlie same, made verse — 
still, effect proceeds from cause, 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye 
Iiear how the tale is told ; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obed- 
ience to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud in the 
artist-list enrolled : — 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of 

the will that can. 
Existent behind all laws, that made 

them and, lo. they are ! 
And I know not if, save in this, such 

gift be allowed to mau, 
That out of three sounds he frame, not 

a fourth sound, but a star. 
Consider it well : each tone of our scale 

in itself is naught : 



It is everywhere in the world — loud, 

soft, and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two 

in my thought : 
And there ! Ye have heard and seen : 

consider and bow the head ! 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of 
music I reared ; 
Gone ! and the good tears start, the 
praises that come too slow ; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can 
say that he feared, 
Tliat he even gave it a thought, the 
gone thing was to go. 
Never to be again I But many more of 
the kind 
As good, na}', better, perchance : is 
this your comfort to me ? 
To me. who must be saved because I 
cling with my mind 
To the same, same self, same love, same 
God : ay, what was, siiall be. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, 
the ineffable Name ? 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses 
not nuide with hands ! 
What, have fear of change from thee 
wlio art ever the same ? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the 
heart that thy power expands ? 
There shall never "be one lost good ! What 
was, shall live as before ; 
Tlie evil is null, is naught, is silence 
implying sound ; 
What was good shall be good, with, for 
evil, so much good more ; 
On the earth the broken arcs ; in the 
heaven a perfect round. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed 
of good shall exist ; 
Not its semblance, but itself ; no 
beauty, nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each 
survives for the melodi.st 
Wlien eternity affirms the conception 
of an hour, 
Thehigli that proved too high, the heroic 
for earth too hard. 
The passion that left the ground to 
lose itself in the sky. 
Are music sent up to God by the lover 
and the bard : 
Enough that he heard it once : we 
shall hear it by and by. 

And what is our failure here but a tri- 
umph's evidence 



ROBERT BROWNING 



659 



For tlie fulness of the days ? Have 
we withered or agonized? 
Why else was tlie pause prolonged but 
"tiiat singing niiglit issue thence? 
Wliy rushed tlie discords in. but that 
harmony should be prized ? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is 
slow to clear, 
Eacli sufferer says his say, his scheme 
of tlie weal and woe : 
But God has a few of us wlioni lie whis- 
pers in tlie ear ; 
Tlie rest may reason and welcome ; 't is 
we musicians know. 

Well, it is earth with me ; silence re- 
sumes her reign : 
I will be patient and proud, and soberly 
acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the com- 
mon chord again. 
Sliding by semitones till I sink to the 
minor, — yes. 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand 
on alien ground, 
Surveying awhile the heiglits I rolled 
from into the deep ; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, 
for iny resting-place is found. 
The C Major of this life : so, now I will 
, try to sleep. 1864. 

*) RABBI BEN EZRA 

Grow old along with me ! 

The best is yet to be, 

Tiie last of life, for which the first was 

made : 
Our times are in his hand 
Who saith, •' A whole I })]anned. 
Youth shows but half ; trust God : see 

all, nor be afraid ! " 

Not that, amassing flowers, 
Youth sighed, "•Whicli rose make ours. 
Which lilv leave and then as best re- 
call ? '' 
Not that, admiring stars. 
It yearned, '' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which 
blends, transcends them all ! " 

Not for such hopes and feai's 
Annulling youth's brief years. 
Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 
Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without, 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by 
a spark. 



Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
Were man but formed to feetl 
On joy, to solely seek and find a feast : 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men : 
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets 
doubt the maw-crammed beast? 

Rejoice we are allied 
To that which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not receive ! 
A spark disturbs our clod : 
Nearer we hold of God 
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, 
I must believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough. 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand 

but go ! 
Be our joys three-parts jiain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, 

never grudge the throe ! 

For thence, — a paradox 
Which comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
What I aspired to be. 
And was not. comforts me : 
A brute I might have been, but would 
not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit. 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 

want play ? 
To man. propose tliis test — 
Thy body at its best. 
How far can that project thy soul on its 

lone way ? 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 

I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every 

turn : 
Eyes, ears took in theii; dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole ; 
Should not the heart beat once '• How 

good to live and learn "? 

Not once beat '"Praise be thine ! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now Love perfect 

too : 
Perfect I call thy plan : 
Thanks that I was a man ! 
Maker, remake, complete,— I trust what 

thou shalt do ! " 



66o 



BRITISH POETS 



For pleasant is this flesli ; 
Our soul, in its rose-niesh 
Pulled ever to the eartli. still yearns for 

rest : 
Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as 

we did best ! 

Let us not always say. 

" Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, madeliead. gained ground upon 

the wliole ! " 
As the bird wings and sings. 
Let us cry, " AH good tilings 
Are ours, nor soul lielpsflesli more, now. 

than flesh helps soul ! " 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage. 

Life's struggle having so far reached its 

term : 
Thence shall I pass, approved 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute ; a God thougli 

in tlie germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and 

new : 
Fearless and unperplexed. 
When I wage battle iiext. 
What weapons to select, what armor to 

indue. 

Youth ended. I sliall try 
My gain or loss thei'eby ; 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is 

gold : 
And I shall weigh the same. 
Give life its praise or blame : 
Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, 

being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the 

gray : 
A whisper from the west 
Shoots — " Add this to the rest, 
Take it and try its worth : here dies an- 

otlier day." 

So, still within this life. 

Though lifted o'er its strife. 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at 

last, 
" This rage was right i' the main. 



That acquiescence vain : 
Tlie Future I mav face now I have proved 
the Past."' 

For more is not reserved 
To man. with soul just nerved 
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 
Here, work enough to watch 
Tlie Master work, and catch 
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the 
tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth. 

Toward making, than repose on aught 

found made : 
So. better, age. exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Farther. Thou waitedst age : wait death 

nor be afraid ! 

Enough now. if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand 

thine own. 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let 

thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small. 
Announced to each his station in the 

Past ! 
Was I, the world arraigned. 
Were they, my soul disdained. 
Right? Let age .speak the trutli and 

give us peace at last ! 

Now, who shall arbitrate ? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
ceive ; 

Ten. who in ears and eyes 

Match me ; we all surmise. 

They this thing, audi that : whom shall 
my soul believe ? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called " work." must sentence pass. 

Tilings done, that took the eye and had 

the price ; 
O'er wliich, from level stand. 
The low world laid its hand. 
Found straightway to its mind, could 

value in a trice : 

But all. the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



66 1 



So passed in making up the main ac- 
count : 

All instincts immature, 

All purposes unsure. 

That weished not as his work, yet 
swelled the man's amount : 

Thouglits hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies tliat broke through language 

and escaped ; 
All I could never be, 
All, men ignored in me, 
This, I was wortii to God, whose wheel 

the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies 

our clay, — 
Thou, to whom fools propound. 
When the wine makes its round, 
"Since life fleets, all is change; the 

Past gone, seize to-day ! " 

Fool : AH that is, at all. 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Eaith clianges, but thy soul and God 

stand sure : 
What entered into tiiee. 
That was, is, and shall be : 
Time's vvlieel runs ba,ck or stops : Potter 

and c!lay endure. 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

Tills Present, thou, forsooth, would fain 

arrest : 
Machinery just meant 
To give thy soul its bent, 
Try tliee and turn thee forth, sufficiently 

impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves, 

Which ran tlie laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and 

press ? 
What though, about thy rim, 
Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out. in graver mood, obey tiie 

sterner stress? 

Look not thou down but up ! 

To vises of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trum- 
pet's peal. 

The new wine's foaming flow, 

The master's lips aglow ! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what 
needst thou with earth's wheel ? 



But T need, now as then, 

Thee. God, who mouldest men ; 

And since, not even while the whirl was 

worst, 
Did I — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife. 
Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to 

slake th}^ thirst : 

So, take and use thy work : 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings 

past the aim ! 
My times be in thy hand ! 
Perfect the cup as planned I 
Let age approve of youth, and death 

complete the same ! 1864, 

CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS ; / 

OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND 

" Thoti thoushtest that I was al.together such 
an one as thyself."' 

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day 

is best. 
Plat on his belly in the pit's much mire. 
With elbows wide, fists clenched to pi'op 

his chin. 
And. while he kicks both feet in the cool 

slnsli, 
And feels about his spine small eft-things 

course. 
Run in and out each arm, and make 

him laugh : [plant. 

And while aboA'e his head a pompion- 
( 'oating the cave-top as a brow its eye. 
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and 

beard. 
And now a flower droits with a bee inside. 
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and 

crunch, — 
He looks out o'er yon .sea which sun- 
beams cross 
And recross till they weave a spider-web, 
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks 

at times,) [please. 

And talks to his own self, howe'er he 
Touching that other, whom his dam 

called God. 
Because to talk about Him. vexes — ha. 
Could He but know ! and time to vex is 

now, 
When talk is safer than in winter-time. 
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 
In confidence he drudges at their task, 
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe. 
Letting the rank tongue blossom into 

speech.] 



662 



BRITISH POETS 



Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos ! 
'Thinketh, He dwelletli i" the cold o' the 
moon. 

'Thinketh He made it, with tlie sun to 
match, 

But not the stars ; the stars came other- 
wise ; 

Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such 
as that : 

Also this isle, what lives and grows 
thereon, 

And snaky sea which rounds and ends 
the same. 

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease : 
He hated that He cannot change His 

cold, 
Nor cure its ache. ' Hath spied an icy 

fish 
That longed to ' scape the rock-stream 

where slie lived. 
And thaw herself within tlie lukewarm 

brine 
O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far 

amid, 
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls 

of wave ; 
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse 
At the other kind of water, not her life, 
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' 

tlje sun,) 
Flounced back from bliss she was not 

born to breathe. 
And in her old bounds buried her despair. 
Hating and loving warmth alike : so He. 

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, 

this isle, 
Trees and tlie fowlshere, beastand creep- 
ing thing. 
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a 

leech ; 
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, 
That floats and feeds ; a certain badger 

brown 
He hath watched hunt with tliat slant 

whitewedge eye 
By moonlight ; and tlie pie with the long 

tongue 
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a 

worm , 
And says a plain word when she finds 

her prize, [selves 

But will not eat the ants ; the ants them- 
That build a wall of seeds and settled 

stalks 
About their hole — He made all these 

and more, 



Made all we see. and us, in .spite : how 

else? 
He could not, Himself, make a second 

self 
To be His mate ; as well have made 

Himself : 
He would not make what He mislikes 

or slights, 
An eyesore to Him, oi" not worth His 

pains : 
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, 
Make what Himself would fain, in a 

manner, be — 
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, 
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all 

the wliile, 
Tilings He admires and mocks too, — that 

is it. 
Becaixse, so brave, so better though they 

be, 
It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 
Look now, T melt a gourd-fruit into masii. 
Add honeycomb and pods, I have per- 
ceived. 
Which bite like finches when they bill 

and kiss, — 
Then, wlien froth rises bladdery, drink 

up all, 
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper 

through my brain ; 
Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded 

thyme, 
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 
Put case, unable to be what I wish. 
I yet could make a live bird out of clay : 
Would not I take clay, pinch iny Caliban 
Able to fl}'? — for, there, see, he liatli 

wings. 
And great comb like the hoopoe's to 

admire, 
And tliere, a sting to do his foes offence, 
Tliere, and I will that he begin to live, 
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the liorns 
Of grigs liigli up that make tlie merry din 
Saucy through their veined wings, and 

mind me not. 
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle 

clay, 
And he lay stupid-like, — why I should 

laugh ; 
And if he, spying me should fall to weep 
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, 
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow 

again, — 
Well, as the chance were this might 

take or else 
Not take my fancy : I might hear his cry 
And give the manikin three sound legs 

for one. 



ROBERT BROWNING 



66^ 



Or pluck the other off, leave him like an 

And lessoned he was mine and merely 

clay. 
Were this no pleasure lying in the 

thyme, 
Drinking the mash, with brain become 

alive 
Making and marring clay at will ? So 

He. 

'Thinketh such shows nor right nor 

wrong in Him, 
Nor kind nor cruel : He is strong and 

Lord. 
' Am strong myself compared to yonder 

crabs 
Tliat march now from the mountain to 

the sea ; 
' Let twenty pass and stone the twenty- 
first. 
Loving not, hating not, just clioosing so. 
' Say, tlie first straggler that boasts purple 

spots 
Shall join the file, one j^incer twisted off ; 
'Say this bruised fellow shall receive a 

worm , 
And two worms he whose nippers end 

in red ; 
As it likes me each time I do : so He. 

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the 

main. 
Placable if His mind and ways were 

guessed, 
But rougher than His handiwork, be 

sure ! 
Oh. He hath made things worthier than 

Hiniself, 
And envieth tliat, so helped, such things 

do more 
Than He who made them ! What con- 
soles but tliis ? 
That they, unless through Him, do 

nauglit at all. 
And must submit : what other use in 

things? 
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint 
That, blown through, gives exact tlie 

scream o' the jay 
When from her wing you twitch the 

featiiers blue : 
Sound this, and little birds that hate the 

jay 
Flock within stone's throw, glad their 

foe is hurt : 
Put case such pipe could prattle and 

boast forsooth, [tiling, 

" I catch the birds, I am the crafty 



I make tlie cry my maker cannot make 
With his great round mouth ; he must 

blow through mine ! " 
Would not I smash it with my foot ? So 

He. 

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill 

at ease ? 
Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for that, 
What knows, — the something over Sete- 

bos 
That made Him, or He, may be, found 

and fought, 
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, 

perchance. 
There may be something quiet o'er His 

head. 
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor 

grief, 
Since both derive from weakness in 

some way. 
I joy because the quails come ; would 

not joy 
Could I bring quails here wjien I have a 

mind : 
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its 

couch, 
But never spends much thought nor care 

that way. 
It may look up, work up, the worse for 

those 
It works on ! 'Caretli but for Setebos 
Tlie many-handed as a cuttle-fish. 
Who, making Himself feared through 

wliat He does, 
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot 

soar 
To what is quiet and hatli happy life ; 
Next looks down here, and out of very 

spite 
Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon 

real. 
These good things to match those as hips 

do grapes. 
'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and 

sport. 
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his 

books 
Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle : 
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, 

arrow-shaped. 
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodi- 
gious words ; 
Has peeled a wand and called it by a 

name ; 
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's 

robe 
The eyed skin of a supple oncelot ; 



664 



BRITISH POETS 



And hath an ounce sleeker than young- 
ling mole, 

A four-legged serpent he makes cower 
and couch, 

Now snarl, now hold its breatli and 
mind his eye, 

And saith she is Miranda and my wife : 
•'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill 
crane 

He bids go wade for fish and straight 
disgorge ; 

Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he 
snared, 

Blinded tlie eyes of and brought some- 
wliat tame, 

And split its toe-webs, and now pens tlie 
drudge 

In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Cali- 
ban ; 

A bitter lieart that bides its time and 
bites. 

"Plays thus at being Prosper in a way. 

Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so 
He. 

His dam held that the Quiet made all 

things 
Whicli Setebos vexed only : 'holds not 

so. 
Who made them weak, meant weakness 

He might vex. 
Had He meant otlier, while His hand 

was in, 
Why not make horny eyes no thorn 

could prick. 
Or plate my scalp with bone against 

the snow, 
Or overscale my flesh 'neatli joint and 

joint 
Like an ore's armor? Ay, — so spoil His 

sport ! 
He is the One now : only He doth all. 

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what 

profits him. 
Ay, himself loves what does him good ; 

but why? 
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded 

beast 
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on liis 

nose, 
But, had he eyes, would w\ant no help, 

but hate 
Or love, just as it liked him : he hatli 

eyes. 
Also it pleases Setebos to work. 
Use all His hands, and exercise much 

craft, [worked. 

By no means for the love of what is 



'Tasteth himself, no finer good i' the 

world 
When all goes right, in this safe summer- 
time, 
And he wants little, hungers, aches not 

much. 
Than trying wliat to do with wit and 

strength. 
'Falls to make something : 'piled yon 

pile of turfs, 
And squared and .stuck there squares of 

soft white chalk, 
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon 

on each. 
And .set up endwise certain spikes of 

tree, 
And crowned the whole with a sloth's 

skviU a-top. 
Found (lead i' the wocjds, too hard for 

one to kill. 
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole 

.sake ; 
'Shall some day knock it down again: so 

He. 

"Saith He is terrible : watch His feats in 

proof ! 
One hurricane will spoil six good 

months' hope. 
He hath a spite again.st me, t hat I know. 
Just as He favors Prosper, wlio knows 

why ? 
So it is, all the same, as well I find. 
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced 

them firm 
With stone and stake to stop she- 
tortoises 
Crawling to lay their eggs here : well, 

one wave. 
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck. 
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its 

large tongue, 
And licked the whole labor flat : so 

much for spite. 

'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it 

lies) 
Where half an liour before, I slept i' the 

shade : 
Often they scatter sparkles : there is 

force I 
'Dug up a newt He inay liave envied 

once 
.\nd turned to stone, shut up in.side a 

stone. 
Please .Him and hinder this? — What 

Prosper does ? 
Aha, if He would tell me how ! Not He ! 
There is the sport : discover how or die ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 



665 



All need not die, for of the things o' the 

isle 
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up 

trees ; 
Those at His mercy, — why they please 

Him most 
When . . . when . . . well, never try 

the same way twice I 
Repeat what act has pleased, He may 

grow wroth. 
You must not know His ways, and play 

Him off. 
Sure of the issue. Doth the like him- 
self : 
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears 
But steals the nut from underneath my 

thumb. 
And when I threat, bites stoutly in de- 
fence : 
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise. 
Curls up into a ball, pretending death 
For fright at my a[)proach : the two ways 

please. 
But what would move my choler moie 

than this. 
That either creature counted on its life 
To-morrow and next day and all days to 

come. 
Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its 

heart, 
" Because lie did so yesterday with me, 
And otherwise with such another brute. 
So must he do henceforth and always." — 

Ay? 
Would teach the reasoning couple what 

•' must" means ! 
'Doth as lie likes, or wherefore Lord ? 

So He. 

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, 
And we shall have to live in fear of Him 
So long as He lives, keeps his strength : 

no change, 
If He have done His best, make no new 

world 
To please Him more, so leave off watch- 
ing this, — 
If He surprise not even the Quiet's self 
Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow 

into it 
As grubs grow butterflies : else, here we 
are, [all. 

And there is He, and nowhere help at 

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall 

stop. 
His dam iield different, that after death 
He both plagued enemies and feasted 

friends : 



Idly ! He doth His worst in this our 

life. 
Giving just respite lest we die through 

pain, 
Saving last pain for worst, — with which, 

an end. 
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His 

ire 
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, him- 
self, 
Yonder two flies, with purple films and 

pink. 
Bask on the pompion-bell above : kills 

both. 
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their 

ball 
On head and tail as if to save their lives : 
Moves them the stick away they strive 

to clear. 

Even so.' would have him misconceive, 

suppose 
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, 
And always, above all else, envies Him ; 
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark 

nights. 
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to 

laugh, 
And never speaks his mind save housed 

as now : 
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He cavight 

me here, 
O'erheard this speech, and asked " What 

chucklest at ? " 
'Wovild, to appease Him, cut a finger off. 
Or of my three kid yearlings bvirn the 

best. 
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, 
Or push my tame beast for the ore to 

taste : 
While myself lit a fire, and made a song 
And sung it, " What I Jutte, he consecrate. 
To celebrate Tliee and Thy state, no mate 
Fur TJiee ; loliat see for envy in ]}oor 

me ?" 
Hoijing the while, since evils sometimes 

mend, 
Warts rub away and sores are cured with 

slime, 
That .some strange day, will either the 

Quiet catch 
And conquer Setebos. or likelier He 
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. 



[What, what ? A curtain o'er the world 

at once ! 
Crickets stop hissing ; not a bird — or, 

yes. 



666 



BRITISH POETS 



There scuds His raven that has told Him 

all! 
It was fool's plaj% this prattling ! Ha ! 

The wind 
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house 

o' the move, 
And fast invading fires begin ! White 

blaze — • 
A tree's head snaps — and there, there, 

there, there, there. 
His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe at 

Him! 
Lo ! 'Lietli flat and lovetli Setebos ! 
'Maketh his teeth meet through liis upper 

lip. . [month 

Will let those quails fly. will not eat tliis 
One little mess of wlielks, so he may 

'scajje !] 1864. 

CONFESSIONS 

What is lie buzzing in my ears? 

" Now that I come to die, 
Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? " 

Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 

What I viewed there once, what I view 
again 

Wliere the phj'sic bottles stand 
On the table's edge, — is a suburb lane. 

With a wall to my bedside hand. 

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 
From a house you could descry 

O'er the garden-wall ; is the curtain blue 
Or green to a liealthy eye ? 

To mine, it serves for the old June 
weather 
Blue above lane and wall ; 
And that farthest bottle labelled 
"Ether" 
Is the house o'ertopping all. 

At a terrace, somewhere near the 
stopper. 

There watched for me, one June, 
A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper, 

My poor mind 's out of tune. 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 

Close by the side, to dodge 
Eyes in the house, two eyes except : 

They styled their house " The Lodge." 

AVhat right had a lounger up their lane ? 

But, by creeping very close. 
With the good wall's lielp, — their eyes 
miglit strain 

And stretch themselves to Oes, 



Yet never catcli lier and me together, 

As she left the attic, tliere, 
B}^ the rim of the bottle labelled 
" Ether." 

And stole from stair to stair, 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. 
Alas, 

We loved, sir — used to meet : 
How sad and bad and mad it was — 

But, then, how it was sweet ! 1864. 

YOUTH AND ART 

It once might have been, once only : 
We lodged in a street together, 

You, a sparrow on the house top lonely. 
I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 

Your trade was with sticks and clay. 
You tliumbed, thrust, patted and 
polished, 

Then laughed "They will see some day 
Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 

My business was song, song, song ; 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twit- 
tered, 
" Kate Brown's on the boards ere long. 

And Grisi's existence embittered ! " 

I earned no more by a warble 
Than you by a sketch in plaster : 

You wanted a piece of marble, 
I needed a music-master. 

We studied hard in our styles, 

Chip])ed each at a crust like Hindoos, 

For air, looked out on the tiles. 
For fun, watched each other's win- 
dows. 

You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard 
too : 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With fingers the clay adhered to. 

And I — soon managed to find 

W^eak points in the flower- fence facing, 
Was forced to put up a blind 

And be safe in my corset-lacing. 

No harm ! It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up 

As I sliook upon E in alt., 
Or ran the chromatic scale up : 

For spring bade the sparrows pair. 
And the boys and girls gave guesses, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



667 



And stalls in our street looked rare 
Witli bulrush and watercresses. 

Why did not you pinch a flower 
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 

Why did not I put a power 

Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 

I did look, sharp as a lynx, 

(And yet the memory rankles,) 

Wlien models arrived, some minx 

Tripj^ed up-stairs, she and her ankles. 

But T think I gave you as good ! 

'• That foreign fellow, — wliocan know 
How slie pays, in a playful mood. 

For his tuning her that piano V " 

Could you say so, and never say, 

" Suppose we join hands and fortunes. 

And I fetch her from over tlie way, 
Her, piano, and long tunes and short 
tunes ? " 

No, no : you would not be rash, 
Nor 1 rasher and something over : 

You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 
And Grisi yet lives in clover. 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 
I'm queen myself at bals-pare, 

I 've married a rich old lord. 

And you 're dubbed knight and an 
R. A. 

Each life unfulfilled, you see ; 

It liangs still, patchy and scrappy : 
We liave not sighed deej), lauglied free. 

Starved, feasted, despaired, — been 
happy. 

And nobody calls j'ou a dunce, 
And people suppose me clever : 

Til is could but liave liappened once, 
And we missed it, lost it forever. 

1864. 



V 



A FACE 



If one could have that little head of hers 
Painted upon a background of pale gold, 
Sucli as the Tuscan's earlj^ art prefers ! 
No shade encroaching on the matchless 

mould 
Of tiiose two lips, which should be open- 
ing soft 
In the pure profile : not as when she 

laughs, 
For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft 
Yon liyacinth, she loves so, leaned its 
staff's 



Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lii^s apart for 

this. 
Tlien her lithe neck, three fingers might 

surround, 
How it should waver on the pale gold 

ground 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it 

lifts ! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
Of lieaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades 

absorb : 
But these are only massed there, I should 

think, 
Waiting to see some wonder momently 
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against 

the sky 
(That 's the pale ground you 'd see tliis 

sweet face bjO. 
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into 

one eye 
Which fears to lose the wonder, should 

it wink. 1864. 

PROSPICE 

Fkar death ?— to feel the fog in my 
throat. 
The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts 
denote 
I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the 
storm, 
The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a 
visible form. 
Yet the strong man must go : 
For tlie journey is done and the summit 
attained. 
And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guer- 
don be gained. 
The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my 
e}'es, and fcn'bore. 
And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste tlie whole of it, fare 
like iny peers 
The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
life's arrears 
Of j>ain. darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to 
the brave. 
The black minute's at end, 



668 



BRITISH POETS 



And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices 
that rave, 
Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace 
out of pain, 
Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp 
thee again. 
And with God be tlie rest ! 1861. 1864, 

/ 

TO DRAMATIS PERSONjE 



EPILOGUE 



Witless alike of will and way divine. 
How heaven's higli with earth's low 

sliould intertwine ! 
Friends, I have seen through your eyes : 

now use mine ! 

Take the least man of all mankind, as I ; 
Look at his head and heart, find liow 

and why 
He differs from his fellows utterly : 

Then, like me, watch when nature by 

degrees 
Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas 
(They said of old) the instinctive water 

flees 

Toward some elected point of central 

rock. 
As though, for its sake onlv, roamed the 

flock 
Of waves about the waste : awhile they 

mock 

With radiance caught for the occasion, 

— hues 
Of blackest hell now, now such reds and 

blues 
As only heaven could fitly interfuse, — 

Tlie mimic monarch of the wliirlpool, 

king 
O" tlie current for a minute : then they 

wring 
Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, 

And hasten off, to play again elsewhere 
The same part, choose anotlier peak as 

bare. 
They find and flatter, feast and finish 

there. 

Wlien you see what I tell you. — nature 

dance 
About each man of us, retire, advance. 
As thougli the pageant's end were to 

enhance 



His worth, and — once tiie life, his pro- 
duct, gained — 

Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife 
sustained. 

And show thus real, a thing the North 
but feigned — 

When jou acknowledge that one world 

could do 
All the diverse woi'k, old yet ever new, 
Divide us, eacli from other, me from 

you,— 

Why, where's the need of Temple, when 

tlie walls 
O' the worhl are that? What use of 

swells and falls 
From Levites' choir. Priests' cries, and 

trumpet-calls ? 

Tliat one Face, far from vanish, rather 

grows. 
Or decomposes but to recompose. 
Become my universe that feels and 

knows! IStU. 

DEDICATION OF THE RING AND 
THE BOOK 

( END OF BOOK l) 

Such, British Public, ye who like me not. 
(God love you ! ) — whom I yet have 

labored for. 
Perchance more careful whoso runs may 

read 
Tlian erst when all, it seemed, could 

read who ran. — 
Perchance more careless whoso reads 

may praise 
Than late when he who praised and read 

and wrote 
Was apt to find himself the selfsame 

me, — 
Such labor had such issue, so I wrought 
This arc, by furtherance of sucli alloy. 
And so, by one spirt, take away its trace 
Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring. 

A ring witliout a posy, and that ring 
mine ? 

O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. 
And all a wonder and a wild desire. — 
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the 

sun, 
Took sanctuary w^ithin the holier blue. 
And sang a kindred soul out to his face, — 
Yet human at the red-ripe of tlie heart — 



ROBERT BROWNING 



669 



Wlien tlie first siiiiiiiions from the ilark- 

liug eavtli 
Reached thee amid tliy chambeis, 

blanched their blue. 
And bared them of the glory — to dro[) 
I down. 

To toil for man, to suffer or to die, — 
This is the same voice : can tliy soul 

know change ? 
Hail then, and harken from tlie realms 

of help ! 
Never may I commence my song, my due 
To God who best taught song by gift of 

thee. 
Except with bent head and beseecliing 

hand- 
That still, despite the distance and the 

dark, [change 

What was, again may be ; some iuler- 
Of grace, some splendor once thy very 

thouglit, 
Some benediction anciently thy smile : 
— Never conclude, but raising liand and 

head 
Thither where ej'es. that cannot reach. 

yet yearn 
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, 
Their utmost up and on, — so blessing 

back 
In those thy realms of lielp, that heaven 

thy home. 
Some wliiteness which, I judge, thy face 

makes proud. 
Some wanness where, I think, thy foot 

may fall ! 1868. 

HERVE RIEL 



On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen 
hundred ninety-two, 

Did the English fight the French. — woe 
to France ! 

And, the thirty-first of Maj', helter- 
skelter through the blue, 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a 
shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint 
Malo on tiie Ranee, 

Witli the Englisli fleet in view. 



'T was the squadron that escaped, with 

the victor in full chase ; 
Fii-st and foremost of the drove, in his 

great ship, Damfreville : 
Close on him fled, great and small. 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 



And they signalled to the place 
" Help the winners of a race ! 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, talce 
us quick — or, quicker still. 
Here 's the English can and will ! " 

III 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk 
and leaped on board ; 
'• Whj' wliat hope or chance have ships 
like these to pass ? "' lauglied they : 
•' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all 

tlie passage scarred and scored, 
Sliall tlie ' Formidable ' here with her 
twelve and eight}' guns 
Tliiuk to make the river-mouth bj^ the 
single njirrow way, 
Trust to enter where " t is ticklisii for a 

craft of twenty tons. 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, "t is shickest ebb of tide. 

Reacli the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs. 
Not a ship will leave tlie bay ! " 



Then was called a council straight. 

Brief and bitter the debate : 

•' Here's the English at our heels ; would 

you have them take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked to- 
gether stern and bow. 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run tlie ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech). 
■' Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let tlie Captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the 
vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fjite. 



■' Give the word ! " But no such word 

Was ever spoke or heard : 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in 

struck amid all these 
— A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — 

first, second, third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by 

Tourville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he. Herve Riel the 

Croisickese. 

VI 

And " What mockery or malice have we 
here ? " cries Herve Riel : 



670 



BRITISH POETS 



'■ Ale you mad, 3^111 Malouiiis? Are you 

cowards, fools, or rogues? 
Talk to nie of rocks and slioals, me wlio 

took the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, 

every swell, 
'Twixt the offing here and Greve where 

the j'iver disembogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold V Is it 

love tlie lying's for? 
Morn and eve, niglit and day, . 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and ancliored fast at the 

foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That 

were worse than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, tliey know I speak the trutli ! Sirs, 

believe me there's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 
Have the biggest sliip to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 
Audi lead them, most and least, by 

a passage I know well. 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 
And tiiere lay them safe and sound : 
And if one ship misbehave, 
— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why I've notliing but my life. — here's 

my head ! " cries Herve Riel. 



Not a minute more to wait, 

" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save tlie 
squadron ! " cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As tiie big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound. 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way 
were the wide sea's profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock. 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel 
that grates the ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last, 
And just as Herve Riel hollas 

" Anchor ! '' — sure as fate, 
Up the English come — too late ! 



So. the storm subsides to calm : 
They see the green ti'ees wave 



On the heights o'erhjoking Gieve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched vvitli balm. 
•• Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let tiie English rake the baj', 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding 

on the Ranee ! " 
How hope succeeds despair on each Cap- 
tain's countenance! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

■• This is Paradise for Hell ! 
Let France, let France's King- 
Thank the man tiiat did the thing ! " 
Wliat a shout, and all one word, 

" Herve Riel ! " 
As lie stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptcuu of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Thougli I find the speaking, hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the King his ships. 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faitli, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er j^ou will, 
France remains your delator still. 
Ask to heart's content and have ! or my 
name's not Damfreville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded moutli that spoke. 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty 's done. 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, 
what is it but a run ? — 
Since 't is ask and have. I may — 

Since the otiiers go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I 
call the Belle Aurore ! " 

That he asked and that he got, — noth- 
ing moi"e. 



Name and deed alike are lost : 
Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it 
befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 



ROBERT BROWNING 



671 



111 ineniory of the man but for wlioiu 

had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from tlie figlit 

whence England bore the bell. 
Gro to Paris : rank on rank 

Search tiie heroes flung pell-mell 
Oil the Louvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you 

come to Herv^e Riel. 
So, for l)etter and for woi'se, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse, 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do tliou once 

more 
Save t!ie squadron, lienor France, love 

thy wife, the Belle Aurore ! 1871. 



/ 



FIFINE AT THE FAIR 

PROLOGUE 

AMPHIBIAN 



The fancy I had to-day, 

Fancy which turned a fear ! 
I swam far out in the bay. 

Since waves laughed warm and clear. 

I lay and looked at the sun, 

The iioon-sun lookeil at me : 
Between us two, no one 

Live creature, that I could see. 

Yes ! There came floating bj"- 

Me, who lay floating too. 
Such a strange butterfly ! 

Creature as dear as new : 

Because the membraned wings 

So wonderful, so wide. 
So sun-suffused, were things 

Like soul and naught beside. 

A handbreadth overhead ! 

All of the sea my own. 
It owned the sky instead ; 

Both of us were alone. 

I never shall join its flight, 
For, naught buoys flesh in air. 

If it touch the sea — good niglit ! 
Death sure and swift waits there. 

Can the insect feel the better 
For watching the uncouth ])lay 

®f limbs that slip the fetter. 
Pretend as they were not clay ? 

Undoubtedly I rejoice 
That the air comports so well 

With a creature wliich had tlie choice 
Of the land once. Who can tell? 



What if a certain soul 

Which early slipjied its sheath, 
And has for its home the whole 

Of heaven, thus look beneath, 

Thus watch one who, in the world, 
Both lives and likes life's way, 

Nor wishes the wings unfurled 
That sleep in the worm, they say ? 

But sometimes when the weather 
Is blue, and warm waves tempt 

To free one's self of tether, 
And try a life exempt 

From worldly noise and dust. 
In the sphere which overbrims 

With passion and thought, — why, just 
Unable to fly, one swims ! 

By passion and thought upborne. 

One smiles to one's self — " They fare 
Scarce better, they need not scorn 

Our sea, who live in the air ! " 

Emancipate through passion 
And tliought, with sea for sky, 

We substitute, in a fashion, 
For heaven — poetry : 

Which sea, to all intent, 
(lives flesh such noon-disport 

As a finer element 
Affords the spirit-sort. 

Whatever tliey are, we seem : 
Imagine the thing tliey Icnow ; 

All deeds they do, we dream ; 
Can heaven be else but so? 

And meantime, yonder sti"eak 

Meets the horizon's verge ; 
That is tlie land, to seek 

If we tire or dread the surge : 

Land the solid and safe — 
To welcome again (confess !) 

When, high and dry, we chafe 
The body, and don the dress. 

Does she look, pity, wonder 

At one who mimics fliglit. 
Swims— heaven above, sea under. 

Yet always earth in sight ? 1873. 

EPILOGUE ^ 

THE HOUSEHOLDER 

Savage I was sitting in my liouse, late, 
lone : 



672 



BRITISH POETS 



Dreary, weary with the long day's 
work : 
Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a 
stone : 
Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming 
like a Turk ; 
When, in a moment, just a knock, call, 
cry. 
Half a pang and all a rapture, there 
again were we ! — 
" Wliat, and is it really you again ? " 
quoth I : 
" I again, what else did you expect ? " 
quoth She. 

"Never inind, hie away from this old 
liouse — 
Every crumbling brick embrowned 
witli sin and shame ! 
Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes 
arouse ! 
Let tiiem — every devil of the night — 
lay claim. 
Make and mend, or rap and rend, for 
me ! Good-by ! 
God be tlieir guard from disturbance 
at their glee, 
Till, crasli, comes down the carcass in a 
heap ! " quoth I : 
"Nay, but there's a decency re- 
quired ! " quoth She. 

" Ah, but if you knew how time has 
dragged, days, nights ! 
All the neighbor-talk with man and 
maid — sucli men ! 
All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, 
window-sights : 
All the worry of flapping door and 
echoing roof : and then. 
All the fancies . . . Who were they had 
leave, dared trj' 
Darker arts tliat almost struck despair 
in me ? 
If you knew but how I dwelt down 
here ! " quoth I : 
" And was I so better off up there ?" 
quoth She. 

" Help and get it over ! Reiinited to 
Ms tcife 
(How draw up the paper lets the par- 
isli people know ?) 
Lies M, or N., departed from this life. 
Day the this or that, moiitlL and year 
the so and so. 
What i' the way of final flourish ? Prose, 
verse ? Try ! 
Affliction sore long time he bore, or, 
what is it to be? 



Till God did please to grant him ease. 
Do end ! " quoth I : 
•* I end with — Love is all, and Deatli 
is nought ! " quoth She. 1872. 



^ 



HOUSE 



Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself ? 
Do I live in a house you would like to 
see? 
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf ? 
" Unlock my heart witli a sonnet- 
key ? " 

Invite the world, as my betters ha^'e 
done ? 
" Take notice : this building remains 
on view. 
Its suites of reception every one, 

Its private apartment and bedroom 
too; 

" For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." 
No : thanking the pviblic, I must de- 
cline. 
A peep through my window, if folk pre- 
fer ; 
But, please you, no foot over threshold 
of mine ! 

I have mixed witli a crowd and heard 
free talk 
In a foreign land where an earthquake 
chanced 
And a house stood gaping, naught to 
balk 
Man's eye wlierever lie gazed or 
glanced. 

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, 
The inside gaped : exposed to day, 

Right and wrong and common and 
queer. 
Bare, as the palm of your liand, it lay. 

The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, 
no doubt ! 
" Odd tables and chairs for a man of 
wealth 1 
What a parcel of mustj^ old books about I 
He smoked. — no wonder he lost his 
health! 

" I doubt if he bathed before he dressed." 
A brasier? — tlie pagan, he burned 
perfumes ! 
You see it is proved, what the neighbors 
guessed : 
His wife and himself had separate 
rooms." 



ROBERT BROWNING 



673 



Frieuds, the good man of the house at 
least 
Kept house to himself till aii earth- 
quake came : 
'T is the fall of its frontage permits you 
feast 
On the inside arrangement you praise 
or blame. 

Outside should suffice for evidence : 
And whoso desires to penetrate 

Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense — 
No optics like yours, at anj^ rate ! 

'• Hoity-toity ! A street to explore, 
Your house the exception ! • With thiH 
same ken 
Shakespeare unlocked liis heart.''" — 
Once more. 
Did Shakespeare ? If so. the less 
Shakespeare he ! 1876. 



/ 



5 



FEARS AND SCRUPLES 



Here 's my case. Of old I used to love 
hira, 
This same unseen friend, before I 
knew : 
Dream there was none like him, none 
above him, — 
Wake to hope and trust my dream was 
true. 

Loved I not his letters full of beauty ? 

Not his actions famous far and wide ? 
Absent, he would know I vowed him 
duty ; 

Present, he would find me at liis side. 

Pleasant fancy ! for I had but letters, 
Only knew of actions by hearsay : 

He himself was busied with my betters ; 
What of that? jNIy turn must come 
some daj'. 

"Some day " proving — no dny ! Here's 
tlie puzzle. 
Passed and passed my turn is. Why 
complain ? 
He "s so busied ! If I could but muzzle 
People's foolish mouths that give me 
pain ! 

' ' Letters ? " ( hear them ! ) " You a 
judge of writing? 
Ask the experts ! How they shake the 
head 
O'er these cliaracters, your friend's in- 
diting — 
Call them forgery from A to Z ! 

43 



" Actions ? Where's your certain proof " 
(they bother) 
"He, of all you find so great and 
good. 
He, he only, claims this, that, the other 
Action — claimed by men, a multi- 
tude ? " 

I can simply wish I might refute you. 
Wish my friend would, — by a word, a 
wink, — 
Bid me stop that foolish mouth, — you 
brute you ! 
He keeps absent, — why, I cannot 
think. 

Never mind ! Tliough foolishness may 
flout me. 
One tiling 's sure enough : 't is neither 
frost. 
No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from 
out me 
Thanks for truth — though falsehood, 
gained — though lost. 

All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier. 
For that dream's sake ! How forget 
the thrill 
Through and through me as I thought 
" The gladlier 
Lives my friend because I love him 
still ! " 

Ah, but there "s a menace some one 
utters ! 
" What and if j'our friend at home 
play tricks ? 
Peep at hide-and-seek behind the sliut- 
ters ? 
Mean your eyes should pierce through 
solid bricks? 

" Wliat and if he, frowning, wake you, 
dreamy ? 
Lay on you the blame that bricks — 
conceal ? 
Say, ' At least I saiv tcho did not see me. 
Does .fee vou\ and presently shall 
feeV? 

" Why, that makes your friend a mon- 
ster ! " say you : 
'• Had his house no window ? At first 
nod, 
AVould you not have hailed him ? '' 
Hush, I pray you ! 
What if this friend happened to be — 
God ? 1876. 



674 



BRITISH POETS 



NATURAL MAGIC 

All I can say is — I saw it ! 

The room was as bare as your hand. 

I locked in the swarth little lady, — I 

swear, 
From the head to the foot of her — well, 

quite as bare ! 
" No Nautch sliall cheat me," said I, 

" taking my stand 
At this bolt which I draw ! " And this 

bolt — I withdraw it. 
And there laughs the lady, not bare, but 

embowered 
With — who knows what verdure, o'er- 

fruited, o'erflowered ? 
Impossible ! Only — I saw it ! 

All I can sing is — I feel it ! 

This life was as blank as that room ; 

I let you pass in hei'e. Precaution, in- 
deed ? 

Walls, ceiling and floor, — not a chance 
for a weed ! 

Wide opens the entrance : where 's cold 
now, where 's gloom? 

No May to sow seed here, no June to 
reveal it. 

Behold you enshrined in these blooms 
of your bringing. 

These fruits of your bearing — nay, birds 
of j'our winging ! 

A fairy-tale ! Only— I feel it ! 187(3. 

MAGICAL NATURE 

Flower — I never fancied, jewel — I pro- 
fess 3'^ou ! 
Briglit I see and soft I feel the outside 
of a flower. 
Save but glow inside and — jewel, I 
should guess you. 
Dim to sight and rough to touch : the 
glor^y is the dower. 

You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, 
a jewel — 
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in 
your prime ! 
Time may fray the flower-face : kind be 
time or cruel. 
Jewel, from each facet, flash your 
laugh at time ! 1876. 

APPEARANCES 

And so you found that poor room dull, 
Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear ? 
Its features seemed unbeautiful : 



But this I know — 't was there, not here. 
You pliglited troth to me, the word 
Which — ask that poor room how it heard. 

And this rich room obtains your praise 
Unqualified. — so bright, so fair, 

So all whereat perfection stays ? 
Ay, but remember — here, not there, 

The other word was sjioken ! — Ask 

This rich room how you dropped the 
mask ! 1876. 

<? EPILOGUE 

TO THE PACCHIAROTTO VOLUME 

juetTTol . . . 
oi S' a/u.<^opi)$ olvov (iieAavos avBoij'ft.iov. 

" The poets pour us wine — " 

Said tlie dearest poet I ever knew, 
Dearest and greatest and best to me. 
You clamor athirst for poetry — 
We pour. " But when shall a vintage 
be""— 
You cry — " strong grape, squeezed 
gold from screw. 
Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine? 
Tliat were indeed the wine ! " 

One pours your cup — stark strength. 

Meat for a man ; and you eye the pulp 
Strained, turbid still, from the viscous 

blood 
Of the snaky bough : and you grumble 

" Good ! 
For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood ; 

Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp ! " 
So, down, with a wr^^ face, goes at 
length 
Tlie liquor : stuff for strength. 

One pours your cup — sheer sweet, * 
The fragrant fumes of a year con- 
densed : 
Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe. 
From the bud on branch to the grass in 

swathe, 
" We suck mer6 milk of the seasons," 
saith 
A curl of each nostril — " dew, dis- 
l)ensed 
Nowise for nerving man to feat : 
Boys sip such honeyed sweet ! " 

And thus who wants wine strong. 
Waves each sweet smell of the year 
away ; 
Who likes to swoon as tlie sweets suffuse 



ROBERT BROWNING 



67s 



His brain with a mixture of beams aud 

dews 
Turned syi"upy drink — rough strength 
eschews : 
" What though in our veins your wine- 
stock stay ? 
The lack of the bloom does our palate 
wrong. 
Give us wine sweet, not strong ! " 

Yet wine is — some affirm — 

Prime wine is found in the world 
somewliere. 
Of portable strength with sweet to 

match. 
You double your heart its dose, j'et 

catch — 
As the draught descends — a violet- 
smatch, 
Softness — however it came there, 
Through drops expressed by the fire and 
worm : 
Strong sweet wine — some affirm. 

Body and bouquet both ? 

'Tis easy to ticket a bottle so ; 
But what was the case in the cask, my 

friends ? 
Cask ? Nay, the vat— where the maker 

mends 
His strong with his sweet (you suppose) 
and blends 
His rough with his smooth, till none 
can know 
How it comes 3'ou may tipple, nothing 
loth. 
Body and bouquet both. 

" You "' being just — ^the world. 
No poets — wlio turn, themselves, the 
winch 
Of the press ; no critics — I'll even saj', 
(Being flustered and easy of faith to- 

<^lay,) 
Who for love of the work have learned 
the way 
Till themselves produce home-made, 
at a pinch : 
No ! You are the woi"ld. and wine ne'er 
purled 
Except to please the world ! 

" For, oh the common heart ! 

And, ah the irremissible sin 
Of poets who please themselves, not us ! 
Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring 

thus ! 
How please still — Pindar and ^schy- 

lus! 



Drink — dipped into by the bearded 
chin 
Alike and the bloomy lip — no part 
Denieii the common heart ! 

*' And might we get such grace, 
And did you moderns but stock oui* 
vault 
With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul. 
How would seniors indulge at a hearty 

pull 
While Juniors tossed off their thimble- 
ful ! 
Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped 
your fault, 
So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker 
race 
Tliat wants the ancient grace ! " 

If I paid myself with words 

(As the French say well) I were dupe 
indeed ! 
I were found in belief that you quaffed 

and bowsed 
At your Shakespeare the whole day 

long, caroused 
In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed 
A moment of night — toped on. took 
heed 
Of nothing like modern cream-and- 
cui'ds. 
Pay me with deeds, not words ! 

For — see your cellarage ! 
There are fortj' barrels with Shakes- 
peare's brand. 
Some five or six are abroacli : the rest 
Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test 
Wliat vourselves call best of the very 
best ! 
How comes it that still untouched they 
stand ? 
Why don't you try tap. advance a stage 
With the rest in the cellarage ? 

For — see your cellarage ! 
There are four big butts of Milton's 

brew. 
How comes it you make old drips and 

drops 
Do duty, and there devotion stops ? 
Leave sucii an abyss of malt and hops 
. Embellied in butts which bungs still 

glue ? [rage ! 

You hate your bard ! A fig for your 
Free him froni cellarage ! 

'T is said I brew stiff drink. 
But the deuce a flavor of grape is 
there. 



676 



BRITISH POETS 



A 



Hardly a May -go-down, 't is just 
A sort of a gruff Go-dowii-it-inust — 
No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust 
Commingles the racy with Spring- 
tide's rare ! 
"What wonder," say you, "that we 
cough, and blink 
At Autumn's heady drink?" 

Is it a fancy, friends ? 
yC Mighty and mellow are never mixed, 
Though mighty and mellow be born at 

once. 
Sweet for the future, — strong for the 

nonce ! 
Stuff j'ou should stow away, ensconce 
In the deep and dark, to be found fast- 
fixed 
At the century's close : sucli time 
strengtli spends 
A-sweetening for my friends ! 

And then — wliy, what you quaff 

With a smack of lip and a cluck of 
tongue, 
Is leakage and leavings — just what haps 
From the tun some learned taster taps 
With a promise "Prepare your v^'atery 
chaps ! 
Here 's properest wine for old and 
young ! 
Dispute its perfection ? You make us 
laugli ! 
Have faith, give thanks, but — 
quaff ! " 

Leakage, I sa3% or — worse — 

Leavings suffice, pot-valiant souls. 
Somebody, brimful, long ago. 
Frothed flagon he drained to tlie dregs ; 

and, lo, 
Down whisker and beard what an over- 
flow ! 
Lick spiltli that has trickled from 
classic jowls. 
Sup the single scene, sip the only verse — 
Old wine, not new and worse ! 

I grant you : worse by much ! 

Renounce that new where you never 
gained 
One glow at heart, one gleam at head. 
And stick to the warrant of age in-. 

stead ! 
No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed ! 
You fatten, with oceans of drink un- 
drained ? 
You feed — who would choke did a cob- 
web smutch 
The Age you love so much ? 



A mine 's beneath a moor : 

Acres of liioor roof fathoms of mine 
Which diamonds dot where you please 

to dig ; 
Yet who plies spade for the bright and 

big? 
Your product is — truffles, you hunt with 
a pig ! 
Since bright-and-big, when a man 
would dine, 
Suits badly : and therefore tiie Koh- 
i-noor 
May sleep in mine 'neath moor ! 

Wine, pulse in might from me ! 

It may never emerge in must from 
vat. 
Never fill cask nor furnish can, 
Never end sweet, which strong began — 
God's gift to gladden the heart of man ; 

But spirit 's at proof, I promise that ! 
No sparing of juice spoils what should 
be 

Fit brevvage — mine for me. 

Man's thoughts and loves and hates ! 
Earth is my vineyard, these grew 
there : 
From grape of the ground, I made or 

marred 
My vintage ; easy the task or hard. 
Who set it — his praise be my reward ! 
Earth's yield ! Who yeai'n for the 
Dark Blue Sea's. 
Let them " lay, pray, bray " — the addle- 
pates ! 
Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, 
hates ! 

But some one says, " Good Sir ! " 

('T is a worthy versed in what concerns 
The making such labor turn out well, ) 
" You don't suppose that the nosegay- 
smell 
Needs always come from the grape ? 
Each bell 
At your foot, each bud that your cul- 
ture spurns 
The very cowslip would act like myrrh 
On tlie stiff est brew — good Sir ! 

" Cowslips, abundant birth 
O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard 
too, 
— Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and 

out 
Distasteful lesson-book — all about 
Greece and Rome, victory and rout — 
Love-vei'ses instead of such vain ado ! 



^^ 



ROBERT BROWNING 



677 



So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth 

Where thoughts have riglitlier birth. 

" Nay, thoughtlings they themselves ; 
Loves, hates — in little and less and 
least ! 
Thoughts ? ' What is a man beside a 

mount ! ' 
Loves ? ' Absent— poor lovers the min- 
utes count ! ' 
Hates V ' Fie — Pope's letters to Martha 
Blount r 
These furnish a wine for a children's 
feast : 
Insipid to man, they suit tlie elves 

Like thoughts, loves, hates, them- 
selves." 

And, friends, beyond dispute 

I too have the cowslips dewy and dear. 
Punctual as Springtide forth peep tliey : 
I leave them to make my meadow gay. 
But I ought to pluck and impound tiiem, 
eh? 
Not let them alone, but deftly shear 
And shred and reduce to — what may 
suit 
Children, beyond dispute ? 

And, here 's May-month, all bloom, 

All bounty : what if I sacrifice? 
If I out with shears and siiear, nor stop 
Shearing till j^rostrate, lo, the crop? 
And will you prefer it to ginger-pop 
When I've made you wine of the 
memories 
Which leave as bare as a churchyard 
tomb 
My meadow, late all bloom ? 

Nay, what ingratitude 

Should I hesitate to amuse the wits 
Tiiat have pulled so long at my flask, 

nor grudged 
The headaclie that paid their pains, nor 

budged 
From bungiiole before they sighed and 
judged 
" Too rough for our taste, to-dav, 
befits 
The racy and right when the years con- 
clude ! " 
Out on ingratitude ! 

(rrateful or ingrate — none. 

No cowslip of all my fairy crew 
Shall lielp to concoct wliat makes you 

wink. 
And goes to your head till you think 

you think 1 



I like them alive : the printer's ink 
Would sensibly tell on the perfume 
too. 
I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done ; 
But of cowslips — friends get none ! 

Don't nettles make a broth 

Wholesome for blood grown lazy and 
thick ? 
Maws out of sorts make mouths out of 

taste. 
My Thirty-four Port — no need to waste 
On a tongue that "s fur and a palate — 
paste ! 
A magnum for friends who are sound ! 
the sick — 
I '11 posset and cosset them, nothing 
loth. 
Henceforward witli nettle-broth ! 

1876. 



LA SAISIAZ 



PROLOGUE 



,/ 



^, 



Good, to forgive ; 

Best, to forget ! 

Living, we fret ; 
Dying, we live. 
Fretless and free. 

Soul, clap thy pinion ! 

Eartli have dominion, 
Body, o'er thee ! 

Wander at will. 

Day after day, 

Wander away, 
W'andering still — 
Soul that canst soar ! 

Body may slumber : 

Body shall cumlier 
Soul-flight no more. 

Waft of soul's wing ! 

What lies above ? 

Sunshine and Love, 
Skyblue and Spring ! 
Body hides — vviiere? 

Ferns of all featlier, 

Mosses and heatlier. 
Yours be the care ! 1878. 

THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 

PROLOGUE 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Till, that May-morn, 
Blue ran the flash across : 

Violets were born ! 



678 



BRITISH POETS 



Skj^ — what a scowl of cloud 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split tiie shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 

World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 
Till God's own smile came out : 

That was thy face ! 

EPILOGUE 

Wliat a pretty tale you told me 

Once upon a time 
— Said you found it somewhere (scold 
me !) 

AVas it prose or was it rhyme, 
Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said. 
While your shoulder propped my head. 

Anyhow there 's no forgetting 

This much if no more, 
That a poet (pray, no petting !) 

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of j'ore, 
Went where suchlike used to go, 
Singing for a prize, you know. 

Well, he had to sing, nor merely 

Sing but play the lyre ; 
Playing was important clearly 

Quite as singing : I desire, 
Sir, you keep tiie fact in mind 
For a purpose that's behind. 

There stood he, while deep attention 

Held the judges round, 
— Judges able. I sliould mention, 

To detect the slightest sound 
Sung or played amiss : such ears 
Had old judges, it appears ! 

None the less he sang out boldly. 

Played in time and tune. 
Till the judges, weighing coldlj- 

Each note's worth, seemed, late or 
soon, 
Sure to smile " In vain one tries 
Picking faults out : take the prize ! " 

When, a mischief ! Were they seven 

Strings the lyre possessed ? 
Oh, and afterwards eleven, 

Thank you ! Well, sir, — who had 
guessed 
Such ill luck in store ? — it happed 
One of those same seven strings snapped. 

All was lost, then! No ! a cricket 

(What "cicada"? Pooh!) 
— Some mad thing that left its thicket 



For mei"e love of mvisic — flew 
With its little heart on tire. 
Lighted on the crippled Ij're. 

So that when (Ah, joy !) our singer 

For his truant string 
Feels with disconcerted finger. 

What does cricket else bvit fling 
Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
Wanted by the throbbing throat ? 

Ay and, ever to the ending, 

Cricket chirps at need. 
Executes the hands intending, 

Promptlv. jierfectly, — indeed 
Saves the singer from defeat 
With her chirrup low and sweet. 

Till, at ending, all the judges 

Cry with one assent 
" Take the ]n-ize — a prize who grudges 

Such a voice and instrument? 
Wh}', we took jour lyre for harp. 
So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 

Did the conqueror spurn the creature. 

Once its service done ? 
That 's no such uncommon feature 

In the case when Music's son 
Finds his Lotte's power too sjjent 
For aiding soul-development. 

No ! This other, on retui-ning 

Homeward, prize in hand. 
Satisfied his boson\'s yearning : 

(Sir, I hope you understand !) 
— Said "Some record there must be 
Of this cricket's help to me ! " 

So, he made himself a statue : 

Marble stood, life-size ; 
On the lyre, he pointed at you. 

Perched his partner in the prize ; 
Never more apart you found 
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 

That "s the tale : its application ? 

Somebody I know 
Hopes one day for reputation 

Through his poetry that 's — Oh, 
All so learned and so wise 
And deserving of a prize ! 

If he gains one, will some ticket, 

Wlien his statue 's built. 
Tell the gazer " 'Twas a cricket 

Helped my crippled lyre, wliose lilt 
Sweet and low, when strength usurped 
Softness" ])lace i' the scale, she chirped? 



ROBERT BROWNING 



679 



" For as victory was nighest, 

Wliile I sang and played, — 
With my lyre at lowest, highest, 

Right alike, — one string that made 
' Love ' sound soft was snapt in twain 
Never to be heard again, — 

" Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 

Perched vipon the place 
Vacant left, and duly uttered 

' Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass 
Asked the treble to atone 
For its somewhat sombre drone." 

But you don't know music ! Wherefore 

Keep on casting pearls 
To a — poet ? All I care for 

Is — to tell him that a girl's 
" Love " comes aptly in when gruff 
Grows his singing. (There, enough !) 

1878. 

TRAY 

Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst 
Of soul, ye bards ! 

Quoth Bard tlie first : 
" Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don 
His helm and eke his habergeon "... 
Sir Olaf and his bard ! 

"That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard 
the second), 

"That eye wide ope as though Fate 
beckoned 

My hero to some steep, beneath 

Which precipice smiled tempting 
death "... 

You too without your host have reck- 
oned ; 

"A beggar child" (let 's hear this 

third!) 
" Sat on a quay's edge : like a bird 
Sang to herself at careless play. 
And fell into the stream. ' Dismay ! 
Help, you the standers-by ! ' None 

stirred. 

" Bystanders reason, think of wives 
And children ere tliey risk their lives. 
Over tlie balustrade has bounced 
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
Plumb on the prize. ' How well he 
dives ! 

"'Up he comes with the child, see, 

tight 
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite 
A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet ! 



Good dog ! What, off again ? There 's 

yet 
Another child to save ? All right ! 

" How strange we saw no other fall ! 
It 's instinct in the animal. 
Good dog ! But lie's a long while under : 
If he got drowned I should not wonder — 
Strong current, that against the wall ! 

" ' Here he comes, holds in mouth this 

time 
— ^What may the thing be ? Well, that 's 

prime ! 
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns 
In man alone, since all Tray's pains 
Have fislied — the child's doll from the 

slime ! ' 

" And so, amid the laughter gaj% 
Trotted my hero off, — old Tray, — 
Till somebody, prerogatived 
With reason, reasoned : ' Why he dived. 
His brain would show us, I should say. 

" ' John, go and catch — or, if needs be, 
Purchase that animal forme ! 
By vivisection, at expense 
Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence. 
How brain secretes dog's soul, we '11 
see ! ' " 1879. 

ECHETLOS 

Here is a story, shall stir you ! Stand 

up, Greeks dead and gone. 
Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed 

Persia rolling on. 
Did the deed and saved the world, for 

the day was Maratlion ! 

No man but did his manliest, kept rank 

and fought away 
In his tribe and file : up, back, out, 

down — was the spear-arm play : 
Like a wind-whipt brancliy wood, all 

spear-arms a-swing that day ! 

But one man kept no rank, and his sole 

arm plied no spear. 
As a flashing came and went, and a 

form i' the van, the rear, 
Briglitened the battle up, for he blazed 

now there, now here. 

Nor lielmed nor shielded, he ! but, a 

goat-skin all his wear. 
Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's 

limbs broad and bare. 
Went he ploughing on and on : he 

pushed with a ploughman's share. 



68o 



BRITISH POETS 



Did the weak mid-line give way, as tun- 
nies on whom the shark 

Precipitates liis bulk? Did the right- 
wing halt when, stark 

On his heap of slain lay stretched Kalli- 
machos Polemarch ? 

Did the steady phalanx falter ? To the 
rescue, at the need, 

The clown was ploughing Persia, clear- 
ing Greek earth of weed. 

As he routed through the Sakian and 
rooted up the Mede. 

But the deed done, battle won, — nowhere 

to be descried 
On the meadow, by the stream, at the 

marsh, — look far and wide 
From the foot of the mountain, no, to 

the last blood-plashed sea-side, — 

Not anywhere on view blazed the large 

limbs thonged and brown. 
Shearing and clearing still with the 

share before wliich — down 
To the dust went Persia's pomp, as he 

ploughed for Greece, tliat clown ! 

How spake tlie Oracle ? ' ' Care for no 
name at all ! 

Say bvit just this : ' We praise one help- 
ful whom we call 

The Holder of the Ploughshare.' The 
great deed ne'er grows small." 

Not the great name ! Sing — woe for the 

great name Miltiades 
And its end at Paros isle ! Woe for 

Themistokles 
— Satrap in Sardis court ! Name not the 

clown like tliese ! 1880. 

; EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIC IDYLS 

" Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song 
he broke : 

Soil so quick-receptive, — not one featlier- 
seed. 

Not one flower-dust fell but straight its 
fall awoke 

Vitalizing virtue : song would song suc- 
ceed 

Sudden as spontaneous — prove a poet- 
soul ! " 

Indeed ? 

Rock 's the song-soil rather, surface 
hard and bare : 

Sun and dew their mildness, storm and 
frost tJieir rage 



Vainly both expend, — few flowers 
awaken there : 

Quiet in its cleft broods — ^what the after- 
age 

Knows and names a pine, a nation's 
heritage.! 1880. 

WANTING IS— WHAT ? 

Wanting is — wliat ? 
Summer redundant, 
Bhieness abundant, 
— Where is the blot ? 
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the 

same, 
— Framework which waits for a picture 

to frame : 
What of the leafage, what of the flower ? 
Roses embowering with nauglit they 

embower ! 
Come then, complete incompletion, O 

comer, 
Pant through the blueuess, perfect the 
summer ! 
Bi'eathe but one bi'eath 
Rose-beauty above. 
And all that was death 
Grows life, grows love. 
Grows love ! 1883. 



ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE 



? 



One day, it thundered and liglitened. 

Two women, fairly frightened. 

Sank to their knees, transformed, trans- 
fixed. 

At the feet of the man who sat betwixt ; 

And " Mercy !" cried each — " if I tell 
the truth 

Of a passage in my youth ! " 

Said This : " Do you mind the morning 
I met your love with scorning ? 
As the worst of the venom left my lips, 
I thought, ' If, despite this lie, he strips 
Tlie mask from my soiil with a kiss — I 

crawl 
His slave, — soul, body, and all ! ' " 

Said that : ' ' We stood to be married ; 
The priest, or some one, tarried ; 

1 Having been criticised for speaking thus of his 
own work (as well he might, if lie chose), Brown- 
ing wrote the following lines in an album, for an 
American girl, at Venice : 

Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, 
Poets dead and gone ; and lo, the critics cried, 
"Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that 

fetters 
Binding Dante bind up— me ! as if true pride 
Were not also humble 1 . . . . 



ROBERT BROWNING 



68i 



' If Paradise-door prove locked ? ' smiled 

you. 
I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 
' Did one, that "s away, arrive — nor late 
Nor soon should unlock Hell's, gate ! ' " 

It ceased to lighten and thunder. 

Up started both in wonder. 

Looked round and saw that tlie sky was 

clear, 
Then lauglied " Confess you believed 

us. Dear ! "' 
'• I saw tlirougli the joke ! " tlie man 

replied. 
They re-seated themselves beside. 

1883. 

NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 

Nevek the time and the place 

And the loved one all together ! 
Tliis path — how soft to pace ! 

This May — what magic weatlier ! 
Where is the loved one's face ? 
In a dream tliat loved one's face meets 
mine, 
But the house is narrow, the place is 
bleak 
Where, outside, rain and wind combine 
Witli a furtive ear, if I strive to speak. 
With a hostile eye at my flushing 
cheek, 
With a malice that marks each word, 
each sign ! 

enemy sly and serpentine, 
Uncoil tliee from tlie waking man ! 

Do I hold tlie Past 

Thus firm and fast 
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
This path so soft to pace shall lead 
Through tlie magic of May to lierself 

indeed ! 
Or narrow if needs the house must be, 
Outside are the storms and strangers : 

we — 
Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she, 

I and she. 1888. 

SONGS FROM FERISHTAH'S 
FANCIES 

Round us the wild creatures, overhead 

the trees, 
Underfoot the moss-tracks, — life and 

love with these ! 

1 to wear a fawn-skin, thou to dress in 

flowers : 
All tlie long lone smiuiier-da^', that 
greenwood life of ours ! 



Rich-pavilioned, rather, — still the world 

without, — 
Inside — gold-roofed silk-walled silence 

round about ! 
Queen it thou on purple, — I, at watch 

and ward. 
Couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy 

slave, love's guard ! 

So, for us no world ? Let throngs press 

tliee to me ! 
Up and down amid men, heart by heart 

fare we ! 
Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, 

hateful face ! 
God is soul, souls land thou : with souls 

should souls have place. 



Wish no word unspoken, want no look 



awaj' 



What if words were but mistake, and 

looks — too sudden, say ! 
Be unjust for once. Love ! Bear it — well 

I may ! 

Do me justice always ? Bid my heart — 

their shrine — 
Render back its store of gifts, old looks 

and words of tliine 
— Oh, so all unjust — tlie less deserved, 

the more divine ? 



Fire is in the flint : true, once a spark 

escapes. 
Fire forgets the kinship, soars till fancy 

shapes 
Some befitting cradle where the babe 

had birth — 
Wholly lieaven's the product, unallied 

to earth. 
Splendors recognized as perfect in the 

star I 
In our flint their home was, lioused as 

now the}' are. 



Verse-making was least of my virtues : 

I viewed with despair 
Wealth that never yet was but might 

be — all that verse-making were 
If the life would but lengthen to wish, 

let the mind be laid bare. 
Sol said '"To do little is bad, to do 

nothing is wtirse " — 
And made verse. 



682 



BRITISH POETS 






Love-making, — how simple a matter ! 
No depths to explore, 

No heights in a life to ascend ! No dis- 
heartening Before, 

No affrighting Hereafter, — love now will 
be love evermore. 

So I felt " To keep silence were folly : " 
— all language above, 
I made love. 



Ask not one least word of praise ! 

Words declare your eyes are bright ? 
What then meant that summer day's 
Silence spent in one long gaze ? 

Was my silence wrong or right ? 

Words of praise were all to seek ! 

Face of you and form of you, 
Did they find the praise so weak 
When my lips just touched your cheek — 

Touch which let my soul come through? 



"Why from the world," Ferishtah 
smiled, " should thanks 
Go to this work of mine ? If worthy 
praise. 
Praised let it be and welcome : as verse 
ranks, 
So rate my verse : if good therein out- 
weighs 
Aught faulty judged, judge justly I 
Justice says : 
Be just to fact, or blaming or approving : 
But — generous ? No, nor loving ! 

" Loving ! what claim to love has work 
of mine ? 
Concede mj"- life wei-e emptied of its 
gains 
To furnish forth and fill work's strict 
confine. 
Who works so for the world's sake- 
he complains 
With cause when hate, not love, 
rewards his pains. 
I looked beyond the world for truth and 

beauty : 
Sought, found, and did my duty." 

1884. 

WHY I AM A LIBERAL 

" Why ? " Because all I haply can and do. 
All tha t I am nj5w. all I hope to be, — 
vVjien ce coin esTt' save from furTune S(:'C- 
ting free 



Body and soul the |)iirpose to pursue. 
Gro d traced for botli ? If fetters not a 

Few , 
Of pr ejuilicp. convention, fall from me, 
1'hese s liall I bid uxau — each in "his 

(Tegrt'p 
Also God-guided — bear, and gayly, too ? 

But little do or can the best of us : 
That little is achieved through Liberty. 
Who, then, dares hold, emancipated 

thus. 
His fellow shall continue bound? Not I, 
Who live, love, labor freely, nor discuss 
A brother's right to freedom. That is 

" Why." 1885. 

ROSNY 

Woe, he went galloping into the war, 

Clara, Clara ! 
Let us two dream : shall he 'scape with 
a scar ? 
Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace 
Making for manhood which nowise we 
mar : 
See, while I kiss it, the flush on his 
face — 

Rosny, Rosny ! 

Light does he laugh : " With your love 
in my soul " 

(Clara. Clara !) 
" How could I other than — sound, safe, 
and whole — 
Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet 
stand 
Scatheless beside you, as, touching 
love's goal, 
Who won the race kneels, craves re- 
ward at your hand — 
Rosny, Rosny ? " 

Ay, but if certain who envied should 
see ! 

Clara, Clara, 
Certain who simper : " The hero for me 

Hardly of life were so chary as miss 
Death — death and fame — that's love's 
guerdon when She 
Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice 
fell on this 

Rosny, Rosny ! " 

So. — go on dreaming, — he lies mid a 

heap 

(Clara. Clara.) 
Of the slain by his hand : what is death 

but a sleep ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 



683 



Dead, with my portrait displayed on 
his breast : 
Love wrought his undoing :" No pru- 
dence could keep 
The love-maddened wretch from his 
fate." That is best, 

Rosny, Rosny ! 1889. 

POETICS 

"So say the foolish!" Say the foolish 
so, Love? 
"Flower she is, mj' rose" — or else, 
" My very swan is she" — 
Or perhaps, "Yon maid-moon, blessing 
earth below. Love, 
That art thou! " — to tliem, belike : no 
such vain words from me. 

"Hush, rose, blush! no balm like 
breath," I chide it : 
"Bend thy neck its best, swan, — hers 
the whiter curve ! " 
Be tlie moon the moon : my Love I place 
beside it : 
What is she? Her human self, — no 
lower word will serve. 1889. 

SUMMUM BONUM 

All the breath and the bloom of the 
year in the bag of one bee : 
All the wonder and wealth of the mine 
in the heart of one gem : 
In the core of one pearl all the shade 
and the shine of the sea : 
Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — 
wonder, wealth, and — how far 
above them — 
Truth, that's brighter than gem, 
Trust, that's purer than pearl — 
Brightest truth, purest trust in the 
universe — all were for me 
In the kiss of one girl. 1889. 

A PEARL, A GIRL 

A SIMPLE ring with a single stone. 
To tiie vulgar eye no stone of price : 

Whisper the right word, that alone — 
Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice. 

And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern 
scroll) [sole 

Of heaven and earth, lord whole and 
Through the power in a pearl. 

A woman ( 't is I this time that say) 
With little the world counts worthy 
praise : 



Utter the true word — out and away 

Escapes her soul : I am wra)>t in blaze, 
Creation's lord, of heaven and earth 
Lord whole and sole — by a minute's 
birth- 
Through the love in a girl ! 1889. 



MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG 



"So, 



Frowned the Laird on the Lord 
redhanded I catcii thee ? 
Death-doomed by our Law of the 
Border ! 
We've a gallows outside and a chiel to 
dispatch thee : 
Who trespasses — hangs : all 's in 
order." 

He met frown with smile, did the young 
English gallant : 
Then the Laird's dame : " Nay, Hus- 
band , I beg ! 
He 's comely : be merciful ! Grace for 
the callant 
— If he marries our Muckle-mouth 
Meg ! 

"No mile-wide-mouthed monster of 
yours do I many : 
Grant rather tlie gallows I " laughed he. 
" Foul fare kith and kin of j^ou — why do 
you tarry ? " 
" To tame your fierce temper ! " quoth 
she. 

" Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him 
fast for a week : 
Cold, darkness, and hunger work 
wonders • 

Who lion-like roars now. mouse-fashion 
will squeak. 

And ' it rains ' soon succeed to ' it thun- 
ders.'" 

A week did he bide in the cold and tlie 
dark 
— Not hunger : for duly at morning 
In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lai'k 
Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still 
ye 're scorning ? 

"Go hang, but here 'spai'ritch to heart- 
en ye first ! " 
"Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast 
within some 
Such music as yours, mine should match 
it or burst : 
No frog- jaws! So tell folk, my Win- 
some ! " 



684 



BRITISH POETS 



t? 



Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's 
door set wide, 
Out he marched, and there waited the 
lassie : 
" Yon gallows, or Mnckle-mouth Meg 
for a bride ! 
Consider ! Sky 's blue and turf 's 
grassy : 

"Life 's sweet: shall I say ye wed 
Muckle-mouth Meg ? " 
" Not I." quoth the stout heart : " too 
eerie 
The mouth that can swallow a bubbly- 
jock's egg ; 
Shall I let it munch mine ? Never, 
Dearie ! " 

"Not Muckle-moutli Meg ? Wow, the 
obstinate man ! 
Perhaps he would rather wed me ! " 
"Ay. would he — with just for a dowrj^ 
your can ! " 
" I 'm Muckle-mouth Meg,'' chirruped 
she. 

" Then so — so — so — so — '" as he kissed her 
apace — 
" Will I widen thee out till thou 
turnest 
From Margaret Minnikin-mou', by God's 
grace, 
To Muckle-mouth Meg in good 
earnest ! " 1889. 

DEVELOPMENT 

My Father was a scholar and knew 

Greek. 
When I was five years old, I asked him 

once 
" What do you read about ? " 

" Tlie siege of Troy." 
" What is a siege, and what is Troj^ ? " 

Whereat 
He piled up chairs and tables for a town. 
Set me a-top for Priam, called our cat 
— Helen, enticed away from home (he 

said) 
By wicked Paris, who couched some- 
where close 
Under the footstool, being cowardly, 
But whom — since she was worth the 

pains, poor puss— 
Towzer and Tray, — our dogs, the Atrei- 

dai. — souglit 
By taking Troy to get possession of 
— Alwavs \vl\en great Achilles ceased to 

sulk. 



(My pony in the stable) — fortli would 
prance 

And put to flight Hector — our page-boy's 
self. 

This taught me who was who and what 
was what : 

So far I rightly understood the case 

At five years old ; a huge delight it 
proved 

And still proves — thanks to that in- 
structor .sage 

My Father, who knew better than turn 
straight 

Learning's full flare on weak-eyed igno- 
rance, 

Or, worse yet, leave weak eyes to grow 
sand-blind. 

Content with darkness and vacuity. 

It happened, two or three years after- 
ward. 

That — I and playmates playing at Troy's 
Siege — 

My Father came upon our make-believe. 

'• How would you like to read your.self 
the tale 

Properl}' told, of which I gave you first 

Merely such notion as a boy could 
bear ? 

Pope, now, would give you the precise 
account 

Of what, some day, by dint of scholar- 
ship. 

You '11 hear — who knows ? — from 
Homer's very mouth. 

Learn Greek by all means, read the' Blind 
Old Mali, 

Sweetest of Singers ' — tuphlos which 
means ' blind,' 

Hedistos which means ' sweetest '. Time 
enough ! 

Try, anyhow, to master him some daj' : 

Until when, take what serves for sub- 
stitute. 

Read Pope, bj' all means ! " 

So I ran through Pope, 

Enjoyed the tale — what history so true ? 

Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged, 

Grew fitter tlms for what was promised 
next — 

The very thing itself, the actual words. 

When I could turn — say, Buttmann to 
account. 

Time passed, I ripened somewhat : one 

fine day, 
" Quite ready for the Iliad, notliing less? 
Tliere's Heine, where the big books block 

tlie shelf : 



ROBERT BROWNING 



685 



Don't skip a word, thumb well the 
Lexicon ! "' 

I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I 

learned 
Who was who, what was what, from 

Homer's tongue, 
And there an end of learning. Had you 

asked 
The all-accomplished scholar, twelve 

years old, 
" Who was it wrote the Iliad ?" — what a 

laugh ! 
'• Why, Homer, all the world knows : of 

his life 
Doubtless some facts exist : it 's every- 
where : 
We have not settled, though, liis place of 

birth : 
He begged, for certain, and was blind 

beside : 
Seven cities claimed liim — Scio, witli 

best right, 
Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those 

Hymns we have. 
Then there 's the ' Battle of the Frogs 

and Mice,' 
That's all — unless they dig ' Margites' up 
(I'd like that) nothing more remains to 

know." 

Thus did youth spend a comfortable 

time ; 
Until — '■ What's tliis the Germans say in 

fact 
Tliat Wolf found out first ? It 's un- 
pleasant work 
Their chop and change, unsettling one's 

belief : ^ 

All the same, where we live, we learn, 

that's sure." 
So, I bent brow o'er Prolegomena. 
And after Wolf, a dozen of his like 
Proved there was never any Troy at all. 
Neither Besiegei's nor Besieged, — nay, 

woi'se, — 
No actual Homer, no authentic text. 
No waiTaiit for the fiction I, as fact. 
Had treasured in my heart and soul so 

long— 
Av, mark you ! and as fact held still, 

still hold. 
Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of 

hearts 
And soul of souls, fact's essence freed and 

fixed 
From accidental fancy's guardian sheatii. 
Assure<lly tlienceforward — thank my 

stars !— 



However it got there, deprive who 
could — 

Wring from the shrine my precious ten- 
antry, 

Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse, 

Achilles and his Friend ? — though Wolf 
—ah, Wolf ! 

Why must he needs come doubting, spoil 
a dream ? 

But then, " No dream's worth waking" — 

Browning says : 
And here 's the reason why I tell thus 

much. 
I, now mature man, you anticipate. 
May blame my Father justifiably 
For letting me dream out my nonage 

thus. 
And only by such slow and sure degrees 
Permitting me to sift the gi-ain from 

chaff. 
Get truth and falsehood known and 

named as such. 
Why did he ever let me dream at all. 
Not bid me taste the story in its strength ? 
Suppose my childhood was scarce quali- 
fied 
To rightlj^ understand mythology. 
Silence at least was in liis power to keep : 
I might have — somehow — correspond- 
ingly- 
Well, who knows by what method, 

gained my gains, 
Been taught, by forthrights not ineand- 

erings, 
My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus' 

son, 
A lie as Hell's Gate, love my wedded 

wife, 
Like Hector, and so on with all the rest. 
Could not I have excogitated this 
Without believing such men really were ? 
That is — he might have put into my 

hand 
The '■ Etliics"? In translation, if you 

please, 
Exact, no pretty lying that improves, 
To suit the modern taste : no more, no 

less— 
The " Ethics : " 't is a treatise I find hard 
To read aright now that my hair is gray, 
And I can manage the original. 
At five years old — how ill had fared its 

leaves ! 
Now. growing double o'er the Stagirite, 
At least I soil no page with bread and 

milk, 
Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface— boys' 
way. 1889! 



686 



BRITISH POETS 



EPILOGUE 

At the midnight in the silence of the 
sleep-time, 
"When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools 

think, imprisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom 
you loved so, 

— Pity me ? 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mis- 
taken ! 
What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, 

the unmanly ? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I 
drivel 

— Being — who ? 



One who never turned his back but 
marched breast forward. 
Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were 

worsted, wrong would triumpli, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to light 
better, 

Sleep to wake. 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's 
work-time 
Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as 

either should be, 
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — 
fight on, fare ever 
There as here ! " 

1889. 



CLOUGH 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poems, with Memoir by Charles Eliot Norton, Ticknor & Fields, 1862. 
Poems and Prose Remains, with Memoir by Mrs. Clough, 2 volumes, 
London, 1869. Poems, 1 volume, The Macmillan Company. Selections 
from the Poems, 1 volume (Golden Treasury Series). Prose Remains, 1 
volume. The Macmillan Company. 

Biography axd Reminiscences 

Memoirs by * C. E. Norton and by Mrs. Clough, in the editions above 
mentioned. Shairp (J. C), Portraits of Friends. 

Criticism 

* Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. II. Bijvanck (W. G. C). 
Poezie en Leven in de 19de Eeuw : Studien op het Gebied der Letterkunde, 
Haarlem, 1889. Dowden (E.), Studies in Literature : I'ranscendental 
Movement in Literature. Hudson (AV, H.), Studies in Interpretation, 
* Hutton (R. H.), Literary Studies. Mabie (H. W.), My Study Fire, Sec- 
ond Series. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Pat- 
more (C), Principle in Art. Perky (T. S.), In Atlantic Monthly, 1875, 
p. 409. Robertson (J. 31.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. 
Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets, p. 243-4. Waddington (S.), Arthur 
Hugh Clough, a Monograph. Ward (T. H.), English Poets. 

Armstrong (R. A.), Faith and Doubt. Macdonald (G.), England's 
Antiphon. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit. Seeburg (L.), Ueber A. 
H. Clough. Sharp (Amy), Victorian Poets. Swanwick (A.), Poets the 
Interpreters of their Age. 

Tributes in Verse 

* Arnold, The Scholar Gypsey ; Thyrsis. * Lowell, Agassiz : Sec- 
tion HI. 



687 



^ 



C L O U G H 



IN A LECTURE-ROOM 

Away, haunt thou not me, 

Thou vain Philosopliy ! 

Little hast thou bestead, 

Save to perplex the head. 

And leave the spirit dead. 

Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, 

While from the secret treasure-deptlis 
below, 

Fed by tlie skiey shower, 

And clouds that sink and rest on hill- 
tops high, 

Wisdom at once, and Power, 

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, 
incessantly ? 

Why labor at the dull mechanic oar, 

When the fresh breeze is blowing. 

And the strong current flowing. 

Right onward to the Eternal Shore ? 
ISJfO. 1849. 

BLANK MISGIVINGS 

How often sit I, poring o'er 

My strange distorted youth. 
Seeking in vain, in all my store. 

One feeling based on truth ; 
Amid the maze of petty life, 

A clue wliei'eby to niove, 
A spot wiiereon in toil and strife 

To dare to rest and love. 
So constant as my heart would be, 

So fickle as it must, 
'T were well for others as for me 

'T were dry as summer dust. 
Excitements come, and act and si^eech 

Flow freely forth ; — but no, 
Nor tliey, nor aught beside can reach 

The buried world below. 

IS4I. 1849. 



I HAVE seen higlier, holier things than 
these. 
And therefore must to these refuse 
mv heart, 



Yet am I panting for a little ease ; 
I'll take, and so depart. 

Ah, hold ! the heart is prone to fall 
away. 
Her high and cherished visions to for- 
get. 
And if thou takest, how wilt thou re- 
pay 
So vast, so dread a debt ? 

How will the heart, wliicli now thou 
trustest, tlien 
Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful 

yet. 

Turn with sharp stings upon itself! 
Again , 
Bethink thee of the debt ! 

— Hast thou seen higher, holier things 
than these, 
And therefore must to these thy heart 
refuse ? 
With the true best, alack, how ill 
agrees 
That best that thou would'st choose ! 

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven 
above ; 
Do thou, as best thou may'st, tliy dutv 
do: 
Amid the things allowed thee live and 
love ; 
Some day thou shalt it view. 

ISU' 1849. 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 

When fell the night, upsprung the 
breeze. 

And all the darkling hours they plied. 
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 

By each was cleaving, side by side : 



CLOUGH 



689 



E'en so, but why the tale reveal 
Of tliose, whom year by year un- 
changed, 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
Or wist, what first with dawn ap- 
peared ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 

Brave barks ! In light, in darkness 

too, 

Through winds and tides one compass 

guides — 

To tliat, and ^^our own selves, be true. 

feut O blithe breeze ; and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting 
past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sovight. 

One purpose hold where'er they fare. — 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 

At last, at last, unite them there ! 

1849. 

THE NEW SINAI 

Lo, here is God. and there is God ! 

Believe it not, O Man ; 
In such vain sort to this and that 

The ancient heathen ran : 
Thougli old Religion shake her head. 

And say in bitter grief. 
The day behold, at first foretold. 

Of atheist unbelief : 
Take better part, Avith manly heart, 

Tiiine adult .spirit can ; 
Receive it not, believe it not, 

Believe it not, O Man ! 

As men at dead of night awaked 

With cries, "The king is here." 
Rush forth and greet whome'er they 
meet. 

Whoe'er shall first appear ; 
And still repeat, to all the street, 

" 'Tis he, — -the king is here ; " 
The long procession nioveth on, 

Each nobler forjn they see, 
With changeful suit they still salute 

And cry, " 'Tis he, 'tis lie ! " 

So, even so, when men were young. 
And earth and heaven were new, 

44 



And His immediate presence He 

From human hearts withdrew, 
The soul perplexed and daily vexed 

With sensuous False and True, 
Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 

And fain would see Him too : 
"He is!" the prophet-tongues pro- 
claimed ; 

In joy and hasty fear, 
" He is ! " aloud replied the crowd, 

" Is here, and here, and here." 

" He is ! They are ! " in distance seen 

On yon Olympus high, 
In those Avernian woods abide 

And walk this azure sky : 
"They are! They are!'' — to every 
show 

Its eyes the baby turned. 
And blazes sacrificial, tall, 

On thousand altars burned : 
" They are ! They are ! " — On Sinai's top 

Far seen the lightnings shone. 
The thvmder broke, a trumpet spoke, 

And Grod said, " I am One." 

God spake it out, " I, God, am One ; " 

The unheeding ages ran. 
And baby -thoughts again, again. 

Have dogged the growing man : 
And as of old fi'om Sinai's top 

God said that God is One, 
B3' Science strict so speaks He now 

To tell us, There is None ! 
Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's 

A Mecanique Celeste ! 
And heart and mind of human kind 

A watch-work as the rest ! 

Is this a Voice, as was the Voice, 

Whose speaking told abroad, 
When thunder pealed, and mountain 
reeled. 

The ancient truth of God ? 
Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 

The outer-darkness dense. 
Where image none, nor e'er Avas seen 

Similitude of sense. 
'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense 

That wrapt the Mount around ; 
While in amaze the people stays, 

To hear the Coming Sound. 

Is there no prophet-soul the while 

To dare, sublimely meek, 
Within the shroud of blackest cloud 

The Deity to seek ? 
'Midst atheistic systems dark. 

And darker hearts' despair, 
That soul has heard perchance His word, 



690 



BRITISH POETS 



And on the dusky air 
His skirts, as passed He by, to see 

Hath strained on their behalf, 
Who on tlie plain, with dance amain, 

Adore the Golden Calf. 

"Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; 

Though blank the tale it tells. 
No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 

Is there — within it dwells ; 
Within the sceptic darkness deep 

He dwells that none may see. 
Till idol forms and idle thouj;hts 

Have passed and ceased to be : 
No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth 

So stand the doctrine's half : 
On Egypt's track return not back, 

Nor own the Golden Calf. 

Take better part, with manlier heart, 

Thine adult spirit can ; 
No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — 

Believe it ne'er — O Man ! 
But turn not then to seek again 

What first the ill began ; 
No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 

God's self-completing plan ; 
Receive it not, but leave it not. 

And wait it out, O man ! 

" The Man that went the cloud within 

Is gone and vanished quite ; 
He cometh not," the people cries, 

" Nor bringeth God to sight : 
Lo these thy gods, that safety give, 

Adore and keep the feast ! " 
Deluding and deluded cries 

Tlie Prophet's brother-Priest : 
And Israel all bows down to fall 

Before the gilded beast. 

Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 

O Man, reject as sin ; 
The clovided hill attend thou still, 

And him that went within. 
He yet shall bring some worthy thing 

For waiting souls to see : 
Some sacred word that he hath heard 

Their light and life shall be ; 
Some lofty part, than which the heart 

Adopt no nobler can, 
Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe 

And thou shalt do, O Man ! 

IS45. 1869. 

THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 

The human spirits saw I on a day, 
Sitting and looking each a different way ; 
Aiid hardly tasking, subtly questioning, 



Another spirit went around tlie ring 
To each and each : and as he ceased his 

say, 
Each after each, I heard them singly 

sing. 
Some querulously high, some softly, 

sadly low, 
We know not — what avails to know ? 
We know not — wherefore need we know ? 
This answer gave they still unto his suing. 
We know not, let vis do as we are doing. 
Dost thou not know that these things 

only seem ? — 
I know not, let me dream my dream. 
Are dust and ashes fit to make a 

treasure ? — 

I know not, let me take my pleasure. 
What shall avail the knowledge thou hast 

sought ? — 
I know not, let me think my thought. 
What is the end of strife? — 
I know not, let me live my life. 
How many days or e'er thou mean'st to 

move ? — 
I know not, let me love my love. 
Were not things old once new ? — 
I know not, let me do as others do. 
And when the rest were over past, 
I know not, I will do my duty, said the 

last. 

Thy duty do? rejoined the voice, 
Ah, do it, do it, and rejoice ; 
But shalt thou then, wlien all is done. 
Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty 
Like these, that may be seen and won 
In life, whose course will then be run ; 
Or wilt thou be where there is none ? 
I know not, I will do my duty. 

And taking up the word around, above, 

below. 
Some querulously high, some softly, 

sadly low, 
We know not, sang they all, nor ever 

need we know. 
We know not, sang they, what avails to 

know ? 
Whereat the questioning spirit, some 

short space, 
Though unabashed, stood quiet in his 

place. 
But as the echoing chorus died away 
And to their dreams the rest returned 

apace, 
By the one spirit I saw him kneeling 

low. 
And in a silvery whisper heard him say : 



CLOUGH 



691 



Truly, thou know'st not, and thou 

need'st not know ; 
Hope only, hope tliou, and believe al- 

way ; 
I also know not, and I need not know, 
Only with questionings pass I to and 

fro, 
Perplexing these that sleep, and in their 

folly 
Imbreeding- doubt and sceptic melan- 
choly ; 
Till that, their dreams deserting, tliey 

with me 
Come all to this true ignorance and 

thee. JS47. 1863. 

BETHESDA 

A SEQUEL 

I SAW again the spirits on a day, 

Wliere on the earth in mournful case 
they lay ; 

Five porches were there, and a pool, and 
round, 

Huddling in blankets, strewn ui^un the 
ground, 

Tied-up and bandaged, weary, sore and 
spent. 

The maimed and halt, diseased and im- 
potent. 

For a great angel came, 't was said, and 

stirred 
The pool at certain seasons, and tlie 

word 
Was, with this people of the sick, tliat 

they 
Who in the waters here their limbs 

should lay 
Befoi'e the motion on the surface ceased 
Should of their torment straightway be 

released . 
So with shrunk bodies and with heads 

down-dropped, 
Stretched ou tlie steps, and at the pil- 
lars propped. 
Watching hy day and listening tlirougli 

the night. 
They filled the place, a miserable sight. 

And I beheld tliat on the stony floor 
He too, that spoke of duty once befox'6. 
No otlierwise than otliers liere to-day, 
Foredone and sick anil sadly muttering 

lay. 
" I know not, I will do — vvliat is it I 

would say : 
What was that word wliich once suf- 
ficed alone for all, 



Which now I .seek in vain, and never 
can recall ? " 

And then, as weary of in vain renew- 
ing 

His question, thus his mournful thought 
pursuing, 

" I know not, I must do as other men 
are doing." 

But what the waters of that pool might 

be. 
Of Lethe were they, or Philosophy ; 
And wliethor he, long waiting, did at- 
tain 
Deliverance from the burden of his pain 
Tliere with the rest ; or whetlier, yet 

before. 
Some more diviner stranger passed the 

door 
With his small company into tliat sad 

place. 
And breathing hope into the sick man's 

face, [go. 

Bade him take up his bed, and rise and 
Wliat the end were, and whether it 

were so. 
Further than this I saw not. neither 

know. ISJfO. 1862. 

FROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE 

EN ROUTE 

Over the great windy waters, and oi'er 
the clear-crested sum^nits. 
Unto the sun and tliesky, and unto tJie 
perfecter earth. 
Come, let ns go, — to a land wherein gods 
of the old time wandered, 
Where every breath even noiv changes 
to ether divine. 
Come let us go ; though inithal a voice 
ivhisper, " The world that we live in, 
Whithersoever we turn, still is the same 
narrow crib ; 
'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure 
a cord, tliat we travel ; 

• Clough's long poem in hexameters, Tlie 
Botliie of Tofcec-iVa- T^i(o/(c7i, interesting as it is, 
is of too little importance and poetic value in 
proportion to its length, tu he included in these 
selections ; and no parts of it are detachable as 
extracts. Some examples of Clough's use of 
hexameters (and elegiacs) may however be taken 
from his other long poem, the Amours de Voy- 
age, which suffer comparatively little in being 
separated from their context, and are equally 
characteristic of some of Clough's moods. They 
are also interesting as a contrast to Byron's 
verses on Rome, in Childi' Harold and elsewhere. 
On tlie Amours de Voyage, see especially Bage- 
hot's Essay on Clough. 



692 



BRITiSH POETS 



Let who would 'scape and he free go to 

liis cJuimber and think ; 
'Tis but to change idle fancies for 

memories wilf idly falser ; 
'Tis but to go and have been.'' — Come, 

little bark ! let us go. 

ROME 

Rome disappoints me still ; but I shrink 
and adapt myself to it. 

Somehow a tyrannous sense of a super- 
incumbent oppression 

Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, 
and makes me 

Feel like a tree (shall I say ?) buried 
under a ruin of brickwork 

Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its 
own Monte Testaceo, 

Merely a marvelous mass of broken and 
casta waj'^ wine-pots. 

Ye gods ! what do I want with this rub- 
bish of ages departed. 

Things that Nature abhors, the experi- 
ments that she has failed in ? 

What do I find in the Forum ? An arcli- 
way and two or three pillars. 

Well, but St. Peter's? Alas, Bernini 
has filled it with sculpture ! 

No one can cavil, I grant, at tlie size of 
tlie great Coliseum. 

Doubtless the notion of grand and capa- 
cious and massive amusement. 

Tills the old Romans had ; but tell me, 
is this an Idea? 

Yet of solidity much, but of splendor 
little is extant : 

" Brickwork I found thee, and marble I 
left thee ! " their Emperor vaunted ; 

" Marble I thought thee, and brickwork 
I find thee ! '" the Tourist may answer. 

THE PANTHEON 

No, great Dome of Agrlppa, thou art not 

Christian I canst not. 
Strip and replaster and daub and do 

what they will with thee, be so ! 
Here underneath the great jsorch of 

colossal Corintiilan columns, 
Here as I walk, do 1 dream of the Chris- 
tian belfries above them ? 
Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long 

hours, tin thy whole vast 
Round grows dim as in dreams to my 

eyes, I repeople thy niches. 
Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and 

Confessors, and Virgins, and children, 
But with the mightier forms of an older, 

austerer worship ; 



And I recite to myself, how 

Eager for battle here 
Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno, 
And with the bow to his shoulder 
faithful 
He, who witii pure dew laveth of Castaly 
His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia 
The oak forest and the wood that bore 
him, 
Delos' and Patara's own Apollo. 

ON MONTORIO'S HEIGHT 

TiBUR is beautiful, too, and the oreliard 
slopes, and the Anio 

Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyri- 
cal cadence ; 

Tibur and Anlo's tide ; and cool from 
Lucretllis ever. 

With the Digentian stream, and with 
the Bandusian fountain. 

Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and 
villa of Horace : — 

So not seeing I sang ; so seeing and lis- 
tening say I, 

Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at 
the cell of the Sibyl. 

Here witli Albunea's home and the grove 
of Tlburnus beside me ; 

Tivoll beautiful is, and musical, O Tev- 
erone. 

Dashing from mountain to plain, thy 
parted impetuous waters, 

Tivoli's waters and rocks ; and fair unto 
Monte Gennaro 

(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I 
wander and gaze, of the shadows, 

Faded and pale, yet Immortal, of Faunu.s, 
the Nymphs, and the Graces), 

Fair In itself, and yet fairer with human 
completing creations. 

Folded In Sabine recesses the valley and 
villa of Horace :— 

So not seeing I sang ; so now — Nor see- 
ing, nor hearing, 

Neitlier by waterfall lulled, nor folded 
in sylvan embraces, 

Neither by cell of the Slbjd, nor stepping 
the Monte Gennaro, 

Seated on Anlo's bank, nor sipping 
Bandusian waters. 

But on Montorlo's height, looking down 
on the tile-clad streets, the 

Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes 
and kitchen-gardens. 

Which, by the grace of the Tibur, pro- 
claim themselves Rome of the 
Romans, — 

But on Montorlo's height, looking forth 
to the vapory mountains, 



CLOUGH 



693 



Cheating the prisoner Hope with illu- 
sions of vision and fancy, — 

But on Montorio's height, with these 
weary soldiers by me, 

Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate 
Pope and Tourist. 

THE REAL QUESTION 

Action will furnish belief, — but will that 
belief be tlie true one ? 

Tliis is tlie point, you know. However, 
it doesn't much matter. 

What one wants, I suppose, is to pi'ede- 
termine the action. 

So as to make it entail, not a chance be- 
lief, but the true one. 

Ont of the question, you say ; if a thing 
isx't lorong we may do it. 

Ah ! but this wrong, you see — but I do 
not know that it matters. . . . 

SCEPTIC MOODS 

Rome is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medi- 
ci taken, 
Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has 

lost il Moro ; — 
Rome is fallen ; and fallen, or falling, 

heroical Venice. 
I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single 

small chit of a girl, sit 
Moping and mourning here, — for her, 

and myself much smaller. 
AVhither depart the souls of tiie brave 

that die in tlie battle. 
Die in tlie lost, lost hght, for the cause 

that perishes with them ? 
Are they upborne from tlie field on tlie 

shimberous pinions of angels 
Unto a fai'-off home, where the weary 

rest from their labor. 
And the deep wounds are healed, and 

the bitter and burning moisture 
Wiped from the generous ej'es? or do 

they linger, unhappy. 
Pining, and haunting the grave of their 

by-g(»ne ho]ie and endeavor ? 
All declamation, alas ! though I talk, 

1 care not for Rome nor 
Italy : feebly and faintly, and but with 

tlie lips, can lament the 
Wreck of the Lombard j'outh, and the 

victory of the oppressor. 
Whither depart the brave ! — God knows ; 

I certainly do not. 



So go forth to the world, to the good rc- 
jport and the evil ! 



Go. little book ! thy tale, is it not evil 
and good ? 
Go. and if strangers revile, pass quietly 
by witliout answer. 
Go, and if curious friends ask of thy 
rearing and age. 
Say, " I ani flitting about many years 
from brain unto brain of 
Feeble and restless youths boini to in- 
glorious days : 
But.'' so finish the word, " Iirasirritina 
Roman chamber, 
IMuni from Janiculan heights thun- 
dered the cannon of France." 

iS4S-lS4!). 1858. 

y 

PESCHIERA 

What voice did on my spirit fall. 
Peschiera, when thy bridge J crost ? 
" *Tis better to have fought and lost, 
Than never to have fouglit at all." 

The tricolor — a trampled rag — 
Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
By sentry boxes yellow- black. 
Lead up to no Italian flag. 

I see the Croat soldier stand 
Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
The eagle with his black wings flouts 
The breadth and beauty of yoiu- land. 

Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
C) men of Brescia, on the day 
Of loss past hope, I heard you say 
Your welcome to the noble pain. 

You say. " Since so it is, — good-bye 
Sweet life, high hope ; but vvhatsoe'er 
May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
To tell, ' The Lombard feared to die ! ' " 

You said (there shall be answer fit), 
" And if our children must obey, 
The.y must : but thinking on this day 
'Twill less debase them to submit." 

You said (Oh not in vain you said). 

■' Haste, l)rothers, haste, while yet Ave 

may ; 
The hours ebb fast of this one day 
When blood may yet be nobly shed." 

Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
For honor, fame, nor self-applause. 
But for the glory of the cause, 
You did, what will not be forgot. 

And though the stranger stand, 'tis true, 
By force and fortune's right he stands ; 



694 



BRITISH POETS 



By fortune, which is in God's hands, 
And strength, which yet shall spring in 
you. 

This voice did on my spirit fall. 
Peschiera, when thj' bridge I crost, 
" 'Tis better to liave fought and lost, 
Than never to liave fought at all." 

18J^9. 1863. 

ALTERAM PARTEM 

Or shall I !-aj% Vain word, false thought, 
Since Prudence hath lier martyrs too. 
And Wisdom dictates not to do, 
Till doing shall be not for nouglit ? 

Not oui"s to give or lose is life : 
Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, 
Remake her work ? or songs recall 
Death's victim slain in useless strife ? 

That rivers flow into the sea 

Is loss and waste, the foolish say. 

Nor know that back they find their way, 

Unseen, to where they wont to be. 

Showers fall upon tlie hills, springs flow, 
The river runneth still at hand. 
Brave men are born into tlie land, 
And whence the foolish do not know. 

No ! no vain voice did on me fall, 
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost. 
" 'T is better to have fouglit and lost, 
Than never to iiave fought at all." 

181,9. 1862. 

IN THE DEPTHS 

It is not sweet content, be sure. 

That moves the nobler Muse to sotig. 
Yet when could trutli come whole and 
pure 
From hearts that inly writhe with 
wrong V 

'T is not the (;alm and peaceful breast 
That sees or leads the problem true ; 

They only know, on whom 't lias prest 
Too hard to hope to solve it too. 

Our ills are worse than at their ease 
These blameless happj' souls suspect, 

They only study the disease, 
Alas, who live not to detect. 1863. 

THE LATEST DECALOGUE 

Thou shalt liave one God only ; who 
Would be at tiie expense of two? 



No graven images may be 

Worshipped, except the currency : 

Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse 

Thine enemy is none the worse : 

At churcli on Sunday to attend 

Will serve to keep the world thj' friend : 

Honor tiiy parents : that is, all 

From wjiom advancement may befall ; 

Thou slialt not kill ; but need'.st not 

strive 
Officioush^ to keep alive : 
Do not adulter}' commit ; 
Advantage rarely comes of it : 
Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat. 
When it 's so lucrative to cheat : 
Bear not false witness ; let tlie lie 
Have time on its own wings to fly : 
Thou shalt not covet, but tradition 
Approves all forms of competition. 

1862. 

FROM DIPSYCHUS 

"There is no God," the wicked saith, 

" And truly it "s a blessing. 
For what He might have done with us 

It 's better only guessing." 

" There is no God." a youngster thinks, 
"Or really, if there may be. 

He surely did not mean a man 
Always to be a baby." 

" There is no God, or if there is," 
The tradesman thinks, " 't were funny 

If He should take it ill in me 
To make a little money." 

" Whetiier there be," the rich man says. 

*• It matters very little, 
For I and mine, thank somebody. 

Are not in want of victual." 

Some others, also, to themselves. 

Who scarce so much as doubt it. 
Think there is none, when they are well 

And do not think about it. 

But country folks who live beneath 

The shadow of the steeple ; 
The parson and the parson's wife. 

And mostly married people ; 

Youths green and happy in first love, 

So thankful for illusion ; 
And men caught out in what the world 

Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 

And almost every one when age. 
Disease, or sorrows strike him, 



CLOUGH 



69s 



Inclines to think there is a God, 
Or something very like Him. 

I849. 1862. 



Our gaieties, our luxuries. 

Our pleasures and our glee, 
Mere insolence and wantonness, 

Alas ! they feel to me. 

How shall I laugh and sing and dance? 

My very heart recoils, 
While here to give my mirth a chance 

A hungry brother toils. 

The joy that does not spring from joy 

Which I in others see, 
How can I venture to employ. 

Or find it joy for me ? IS49. 1869, 



This world is very odd we see, 

We do not comprehend it ; 
But in one fact we all agree, 

God won't, and we can't mend it. 

Being common sense, it can't be sin 

To take it as I find it ; 
The pleasure to take pleasure in ; 

The pain, try not to mind it. 

These juicy meats, this flashing wine. 
May be an unreal mere appearance ; 

Only — for my inside, in fine. 
They have a singular coherence. 

Oh yes, mj^ pensive youth, abstain : 
And any emptj' sick sensation, 

Remember, anything like pain 
Is only your imagination. 

Trust me, I've read your German sage 
To far more purpose e'er than you did : 

You find it in his wisest page. 
Whom God deludes is well deluded. 
IS49. 1869. 



Where are the great, whom tliou 

would'st wish to praise thee ? 
Where are the pure, wliom thou would'st 

choose to love tliee ? 
Where are the brave, to stand supreme 

above thee. 
Whose high commands would cheer, 

whose chiding raise tliee ? 
Seek, seeker, in thvself ; submit to 

find 



In the stones, bread, 
blank mind. 



and life in the 
IS49. 1863. 



When the enemy is near thee, 

Call on us ! 
In our hands we will upbear thee. 
He shall neither scathe nor scare thee, 
He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee. 

Call on us ! 
Call when all good friends have left thee. 
Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee ; 
Call wlien hope and heart are sinking. 
And the brain is sick with thinking. 

Help, O help ! 
Call, and following close behind thee 
There shall haste, and there shall find 
thee, 

Help, sure help. 

When the panic comes upon thee, 
When necessity seems on thee, 
Hope and choice have all forgone thee, 
Fate and force are closing o'er thee. 
And but one way stands before thee — 

Call on us ! 
Oh, and if thou dost not call. 
Be but faithful, that is all. 
Go right on, and close behind thee 
There shall follow still and find thee. 

Help, sure help. 

Jb'49. 1863, 

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say not the struggle nought availeth. 
The labor and tlie wounds are vain. 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly break- 
ing- 
Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
Far back, through creeks and inlets 
making. 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the 

light, [slowl}'. 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how 

But westward, look, the land is Viright, 

IS49. 1863. 



696 



BRITISH POETS 



EASTER DAY 
NAPLES, 1849 

Through the great sinful streets of 
Najjles as I passed, 
With fiercer lieat than flamed above 
m3' liead 
My heart was hot within ine ; till at 
last 
My brain was lightened wlien my 
tongne had said — 
Christ is not risen ! 
Christ is not risen, no — 

He lies and moulders low ; 
Christ is not risen ! 

What though the stone were rolled 
awa}', and though 
The grave found empty there ? — 
If not tiiere, then elsewhere ; 
If not where Joseph laid Him first, wliy 
then 
Where other men 
Translaid Him after, in some humbler 
clay. 
Long ere to-day 
Corruption that sad perfect work hatli 

done. 
Which here she scarcel}% lightly had 
begun : 
Tlie foul engendered worm 
Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving 

form 
Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 
He is not risen, no — 
He lies and moulders low ; 
Christ is not risen ! 

What if the women, ere the dawn was 

gi'ay, 
Saw one or more great angels, as thev 

say 
(Angels, or Him himself) ? Yet neither 

there, nor then. 
Nor afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at 

all. 
Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten ; 
Nor save in thunderous terror, to blind 

Saul ; 
Save in an after Gospel and late Creed, 
He is not risen, indeed, — 
Christ is not risen I 

Or, what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten 
Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet 

again ? 
What if at Emmaiis' inn, and by Caper- 
naum's Lake, 
Came One, the bread that brake- 



Came One that spake as never mortal 

spake, 
And with them ate, and drank, and 
stood, and walked about ? 
Ah ? " .some " did well to " doubt ! " 
Ah ! the true Christ, while these things 

came to pass, 
Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor 
lived, alas ! 
He was not risen, no — 
He Jay and mouldered low, 
Christ was not risen ! 

As circulates in some great city crowd 
A rumor changeful, vague, impor- 
tunate, and loud. 
From no determined centre or of fact 
Or authorship exact. 
Which no man can deny 

Nor verify ; 
So spread the wondrous fame ; 
He all the same 

Laj^ senseless, mouldering, low : 
He was not risen, no — 
Christ was not risen ! 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust : 

As of the imjust, also of the just — 

Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
This is the one sad Gospel that is true — 

Christ is not risen ! 

Is He not risen, and shall we not rise ? 

Oh, we unwise ! 
What did we dream, what wake we to 

discover ? 
Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, 
cover ! 
In darkness and great gloom 
Come ere we thought it is our day of 

doom ; 
From the cursed world, which is one 
tomb. 
Christ is not risen ! 

Eat, drink, and play, and think that this 

is bliss : 
There is no heaven but this ; 

There is no hell. 
Save earth, which .serves tiie purpose 
doubly well. 
Seeing it visits .still 
With equalest apportionment of ill 
Both good and bad alike, and brings to 
one same dust 
The unjust and the just 
With Christ, who is not risen. 

Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls be- 
reaved : 



CLOUGH 



697 



Of all the creatures under heaven's 

wide cope 
We are most hopeless, who had once 
most hope, [lieved. 

And most beliefless, that had most be- 
Aslies to ashes, dust to dust ; 
As of the unjust, also of the just — 
Yea, of that Just One too ! 
It is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
Christ is not risen I 

Weep not beside the tomb, 
Ye women, unto whom [Him ; 

He was great solace while ye tended 

Ye wlio with napkin o'er the head 
And folds of linen round each wounded 
limb 
Laid out the Sacred Dead ; 
And thou that bar'st Him in thy won- 
dering womb ; 
Yea. Daughters of Jerusalem, depart, 
Bind up as best ye may your own sad 
bleeding heart : 

Go to 3'our homes, your living children 
tend. 
Your earthly spouses love ; 
Set your affections not on things 
above, 
Which moth and rust corrupt, which 

qnickiiest come to end : 
Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if 

l)ray ye can. 
For death ; since dead is He wliom ye 
deemed more than man. 
Who is not risen : no— 
But lies and moulders low — 
Wlio is not risen ! 

Ye men of Galilee ! 
Why stand ye looking up to heaven, 

where Him ye ne'er may see, 
Neitlier ascending hence, nor returning 
1 lit her again? 
Ye ignorant and idle fishermen ! 
Hence to your huts, and boats, and in- 
land native shore. 
And catch not men, but fish ; 
AVIiate'er things ye might wish. 
Him neither hei-e nor there ye e'er shall 
meet with more. 
Ye poor deluded youths, go home, 
Mend the old nets ye left to roam. 
Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail : 
It was indeed an " idle tale" — 
He was not risen ! 
And, oh, good men of ages yet to be. 
Who shall believe becmise ye did not 
see — 



Oh, be ye warned, be wise ! 
Nor more with {)leading eyes, 
And sobs of strong desire. 
Unto the empty vacant void aspire, 
Seeking another and impossible birth 
That is not of your own, and only mother 

earth. 
But if there is no other life for you. 
Sit down and be content, since this must 
even do ; 
He is not risen ! 
One look, and then depart. 
Ye humble and ye holy men of 
heart ; 
And ye ! ye ministers and stewards of a 

Word 
Which ye would preach, because another 
heard — 
Ye worshippers of that ye do not 

.know, 
Take these things hence and go : — 
He is not risen ! 

Here, on our Easter Daj'" 
We rise, we come, and lo ! we find Him 

not. 
Gardener nor other, on the sacred sjjot : 
Where they have laid Him there is none 

to say ; 
No sound, nor in, nor out — no word 
Of where to seek the dead or meet the 

living Lord. 
There is no glistering of an angel's 

wings. 
There is no voice of heavenl}^ clear be- 
hest : 
Let us go hen'fte, and think upon these 
things 
In silence, which is best. 
Is He not risen ? No — 
But lies and moulders low? 
Christ is not risen ? 

EASTER DAY 



So in the sinful streets, abstr.acted and 

alone, 
I with my secret self held communing 

of mine own. 
So in the southern city spake the 

tongue 
Of one that somewhat overwildly sung, 
But in a later hour I sat and heard 
Another voice that spake — another 

graver word. 
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been 

said. 
Though He be dead, He is not dead. 



698 



BRITISH POETS 



In the true creed 
He is yet risen indeed ; 
Christ is yet risen. 

Weep not beside His Tomb, 

Ye women unto whom 

He was great comfort and yet greater 

grief ; 
Nor ye, ye faithfvil few that wont with 

Him to roam, 
Seek sadly wliat for Him ye left, go 

hopeless to your liome ; 
Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of 
their belief ; 
Though He be dead. He is not dead, 
Nor gone, though fled. 
Not lost, though vanished ; 
Though He return not, though 
He lies and moulders low ; 
In the true creed 
He is yet risen indeed ; 
Christ is yet risen. 

Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground, 
Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly 
look around. 
Whate'er befell. 
Earth is not hell ; 
Now, too, as when it first began, 
Life is yet life, and man is man. 
For all that breathe beneath the heaven's 

high cope, 
Joy with grief mixes, with despondence 

hope. 
Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief ; 
Or at least, faith unbelief. 
Though dead, not dead ; 
Not gone, though fled ; 
Not lost, though vanished. 
In the great gospel and true creed. 
He is yet risen indeed ; 

Christ is yet risen. IS49. 1869. 

HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE! 

Hope evermore and believe, O man, for 
e'en as thy thought 
So are the things that thou see'st ; 
e'en as thy hope and belief. 
Cowardly art thou and timid ? they rise 
to provoke thee against them ; 
Hast thou courage ? enough, see them 
exulting to yield. 
Yea, the rough rock, the dull earth, the 
wild sea's furying waters 
(Violent say'st thou and hard, mighty 
thou think'st to destroy). 
All with ineffable longing are waiting 
their Invader, 



All, with one varying voice, call to 

him. Come and subdue ; 
Still for their Conqueror call, and, but 

for the joy of being conquered 
(Rapture tliey will not forego), dare 

to resist and rebel ; 
Still, when resisting and raging, in soft 

undervoice say unto him, 
Fear not, retire not, O man ; hope 

evermore and believe. 

Go from the east to the west, as the sun 
and the stars direct thee, 
Go with the girdle of man, go and 
encompass the earth. 
Not for the gain of the gold ; for the 
getting, tlie hoarding, the having. 
But for the joy of the deed ; but for 
the Duty to do. 
Go with the spiritual life, the higher 
volition and action, 
Witli tlie great girdle of God, go and 
encompass the earth. 

Go ; say not in thy heart, And what 
then were it accomplished, 
Were the wild impulse allayed, what 
were the use or the good ! 
Go, when the instinct is stilled, and 
when the deed is accomplished, 
AVhat thou hast done and shalt do, 
shall be declared to thee then. 
Go with the sun and the stars, and yet 
evermore in thy spirit 
Say to thyself : It is good : yet is there 
better than it. 
Tliis that I see is not all, and this that I 
do is but little ; 
Nevertheless it is good, though there 
is better than it. 1863. 

QUI LABORAT, ORAT 

O ONLY Source of all our light and life. 
Whom as our truth, our strength, we 
see and feel. 
But whom the hours of mortal moral 
strife 
Alone aright reveal ! 

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly 
brought. 
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 
Chastised each rebel self-encentered 
thought, 
My will adoreth Thine. 

With eye down-dropped, if then this 
earthly mind 



CLOUGH 



699 



Speechless remain, or speechless e'en 

depart ; 
Nor seek to see — for what of earthly 

kind 
Can see Thee as Thou art ? — 

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 
In thought's abstractest forms to seem 
to see, 
It dare not dare the dread communion 
hold 
In ways unworthy Thee, 

O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed 
forgive. 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart 
prepare ; 
And if in vv^ork its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 

Nor times shall lack, when while tlie 
work it plies. 
Unsummoned powers the blinding film 
shall part. 
And scarce by happy tears made dim, 
the eyes 
In recognition start. 

But, as thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 

The beatific supersensual sight. 
So, with Thy blessing blessed, that 
humbler prayer 
Approach Thee morn and night. 

1862. 

O Thou whose image in the shrine 
Of human spirits dwells divine ; 
Which from that precinct once con- 
veyed , 
To be to outer day displayed. 
Doth vanisli, part, and leave behind 
Mere blank and void of empty mind. 
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain 
With casual shapes to fill again ! 

TIiou that in our bosom's sJirine 
Dost dwell, unknown because divine ! 

1 thought to speak. I thought to say, 
"The light is here," " behold the way." 
" The voice was thus," and " thus the 

word," 
And " thus I saw," and " that I heard," — 
But from the lips that half essayed 
The imperfect utterance fell unmade. 

Thou, in that mysterious shrine 
Enthroned, as I must say. divine ! 

1 will not frame one thought of what 
Thou mayest either be or not. 



I will not prate of " thus" and " so," 
And be profane with "yes " and " no," 
Enough that in our soul and heart 
Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art. 

Unseen, secure in that high shrine 
Acknowledged present and divine, 
I will not ask some upper air. 
Some future day to place Thee there ; 
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
And women saw Thee tlius and then : 
Tliy name was such, and there or here 
To him or her Thou didst appear. 

Do only Thou in that dim shrine. 
Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 
There, or if not, at least in eyes 
That scan the fact that round them lies. 
The hand to sway, the judgment guide, 
In sight and sense Thyself divide : 
Be Thou but there, — in soul and heart, 
I will not ask to feel Thou art. 1862. 

"THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY" 

What we, when face to face we see 
The Father of our souls, shall be, 
John tells us, doth not yet appear ; 
Ah ! did he tell what we are here I 

A mind for thouglits to pass into. 
A heart for loves to travel through, 
Five senses to detect things near, 
Is this the whole tliat we are hei'e ? 

Rules baffle instincts — instincts rules. 
Wise men are bad — and good are fools, 
Facts evil — wishes vain appear. 
We cannot go, wliy are we here ? 

O may we for assurance' sake, 
Some arbitrary judgment take. 
And wilfully pronounce it clear, 
For this or that 'tis we ai'e here ? 

Or is it right, and will it do, 
To pace the sad confusion tlirongh, 
And say : — It doth not yet appear. 
What we shall be, what we are here ? 

Ah yet, when all is thought and said. 
The heart still overrules the head ; 
Still what we hope we must believe, 
And what is given us receive ; 

Must still believe, for still we hope 
Tliat in a worhl of larger scope, 
AVIiat iiere is faithfully begun 
Will be completed, not undone. 



700 



BRITISH POETS 



My child, we still must think, wlien we 

That ampler life togetiier see, 

Some true result will yet appear 

Of what we are. together, here. 18G3. 

AH! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN! 

" Old things need not be therefore true," 
O brother men. nor yet the new ; 
Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain. 
And yet consider it again ! 

The souls of now two thousand years 
Have laid up here tlieir toils and fears, 
And all the earnings of their pain, — 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

We ! what do we see ? each a space 
Of some few yards before his face ; 
Does that the whole wide i^lan explain ? 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

Alas ! the great world goes its whv. 
And takes its truth from each new day ; 
They do not quit, nor can retain. 
Far less consider it again. 1851. 1862. 

SONGS IN ABSENCE 

Come home, come home ! and where is 

home for me. [sea ? 

AVliose ship is driving o'er the tracklpss 

To tlie frail bark hei'e plunging on its 

way, 
To the wild waters, sliall I turn and say 
To tlie i>lunging bark, or to the salt sea 
foam. 
You are my home ? 

Fields once I walked in, faces once I 

knew. 
Familiar things so old my heart believed 

them true. 
These far, far back, behind me lie, l)e- 

fore 
The dark clouds mutter, and the dee^i 

seas I'oar. 
And speak to them that 'neath and o'er 

them roam 

No words of hotne. 

Beyond the clouds, beyond tiie waves 

that roar, 
Tliere may indeed, or may not be a shore. 
Where fields as green, and hands and 

hearts as true. 
The old forgotten semblance may renew, 
And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt 

sea foam 
Another home. 



But toil and pain must wear out many a 

d.iy, 
And days bear weeks, and weeks bear 

months away, 
Ere, if at all, the weary traveller liear. 
With accents whispered in his waj'worn 

ear, 
A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come 
To thy true home. 

Come home, come home ! and where a 
home hath he [sea ? 

Whose ship is driving o'er the driving 
Through clouds that mutter, and o'er 
waves that roar, [shore 

Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a 
That is, as is not ship or ocean foam. 

Indeed our home ? 1S5.,'. 1862. 



Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare. 
Your image at our hearts we bear. 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must fiee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere ytmr loved smile I cease to see. 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast 
If but in thee my lot lie cast. 
Tlie past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

IS-,.?. 1862. 



Come back, come back ! V)ehold witli 

straining mast 
And svi-elling sail, behold her steaming 

fast ; 
With one new sun to see her voyage o'er. 
With morning light to touch her native 

shore. 

Come back ! come back. 

Come back, come back ! wliile westward 

laboring by. 
With sailless yards, a bare black hulk 

we fly. 
See how the gale we fight with sweeps 

her back, 
To our lost home, on our forsaken track. 
Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back ! across tlie tty 

ing foam. 
We hear faint far-off voices call us home : 



CLOUGH 



701 



Come back, ye seem to sa}^ ; ye seek in 

vain ; 
We went, we sought, and homeward 

turned again. 
Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back ; and wliitlier 

back or why ? 
To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes 

to try ; 
Walk the old fields ; pace tlie familiar 

street ; 
Dream witli the idlers, with the bards 

compete. 

Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back ; and wliitlier 
and for what ? 

To finger idly some oldGordian knot, 

Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to 
cleave, 

And with much toil attain to half- 
believe. 

Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back ; yea back, in- 
deed, do go 

Sighs panting thick, and tears that want 
to flow ; 

Fond fluttering hopes upraise their use- 
less wings, 

And wishes idly struggle in tlie strings ; 
Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back, more eager than 

the breeze, 
Tlie flj'ing fancies sweep across the seas, 
And lighter far than ocean's flying foam. 
The lieavt's fond message hurries to its 

home. 
Come back, come back. 

Come back, come back ! 

Back flies the foam ; the hoisted flag 
streams back ; 

The long smoke wavers on the home- 
ward track. 

Back fly with winds things which the 
winds obe}'. 

The strong ship follows its appointed 
way" 1852. 18G2. 



Some future day wlien what is now is 
not, [got, 

When all old faults and follies are ft)r- 

And thoughts of difference passed like 
dreams away, 

We'll meet again, upon some future 
day. 



When all that hindered, all that vexed 

our love. 
As tall rank weeds will climb the blade 

above, 
W^hen all but it has jaelded to decay. 
We'll meet again upon some future day. 

When we have proved, each on his 

course alone, 
The wider world, and learned what's 

now unknown. 
Have made life clear, and worked out 

each a way. 
We'll meet again, — we shall have much 

to say. 

With happier mood, and feelings born 
anew. 

Our boyhood's bygone fancies vi^e'll re- 
view, [l>lay. 

Talk o"er old talks, play as we used to 

And meet again, on many a future day. 

Some day, which oft our hearts shall 
j'earn to see, [be. 

In some far year, though distant yet to 

Shall we indeed, — ye winds and waters, 
say!— 

Jleet yet again, upon some future day ? 
1852. 1862. 



Where lies the land to wiiicli the sliip 

would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? 

Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth 

face. 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here 

to pace ; 
Or, o'er tiie stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild north- 
westers rave. 

How proud a thing to fight with wind 
and wave ! 

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 

Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship 

would go ? 
Far. far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And wliere the land slie travels from ? 

Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
1852. 1862. 



702 



BRITISH POETS 



Were you with me, or I with you, 
There's nought, inethinks, I iniglit not 

do; 
Could venture here, and venture there. 
And never fear, nor ever care. 

To things before, and things behind, 
Could turn my thoughts, and turn my 

mind, 
On this and that, day after day, 
Could dare to throw myself away. 

Sec;ure, when all was o'er, to find 
My proper thought, my perfect mind. 
And unimpaired receive anew 
My own and better self in vou. 

1853. 1863. 



O SHIP, ship, ship. 

That travellest over the sea, 
What are the tidings, I pray thee, 

Thou bearest hither to me ? 

Are they tidings of comfort and joy, 
That shall make me seem to see 

The sweet lips softly moving 
And whispering love to me ? 

Or are they of trouble and grief. 
Estrangement, sorrow, and doubt. 

To turn into torture mj' hopes, 
And drive me from Paradise out ? 

O ship, ship, ship. 

That comest over the sea. 
Whatever it be thou bringest. 

Come quickly with it to me. 

1853. 1869. 

THE STREAM OF LIFE 

O STREAM descending to the sea, 
Thy mossy banks between. 

The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow. 
The leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 

The fields the laborers till. 
And houses stand on either hand, 

And thou descendest still. 

O life descending into death, 

Our waking eyes behold. 
Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 

Companions young and old. 

Strong purposes our mind possess. 

Our hearts affections till. 
We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 

And thou descendest still. 



end to which our currents tend. 
Inevitable sea, 

To which we flow, what do we know, 
What shall we guess of thee ? 

A roar we hear upon thy sliore, 

As we our covirse fulfil ; 
Scarce we divine a sun will shine 

And be above us still. 1863. 

"WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLE- 
NESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF 
TURNING " 

It fortifies my soul to know 
That, thougli I perish, Truth is so : 
That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. 

1 steadier step when I recall 

That, if I slip. Thou dost not fall. 1863. 

ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT 
HESPERUS 

The skies have sunk, and hid the upper 

snow 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie) , 
The rainy clouds are filing fast below, 
And wet will be the path, and wet shall 

we. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 

Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone, 
Who stepped beside and cheered us on 

and on? 
My sweetheart wanders far away from 

me, 
In foreign land or on a foreign sea. 
Home, Rose, and liome, Provence and 

La Palie. 

The lightning zigzags shoot across the 

sky 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie), 
And througli the vale the rains go 

sweeping by ; 
Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? 
Home. Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 

Cold, drearj' cold, the stormy winds feel 

they 
O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that 

stray 
(Home. Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie). 



CLOUGH 



703 



And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to 
mind 

The pleasant huts and herds he left be- 
hind ? 

And doth he sometimes in his slumbering 
see 

The feeding kine, and doth he tliink of 
me, 

My sweetheart wandering whereso'er it 
be? 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie. 

The thunder bellows far from snow to 
snow 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie), 

And loud and louder roars the flood be- 
low. 

Heiglio ! but soon in shelter shall we be : 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie), 

Or shall he find before his term be speil, 
Some comelier maid that he shall wish 

to wed ? 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie.) 
For weary is work, and weary day by day 
To have your comfort miles on miles 

away. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 

Or may it be that I shall find mj^ mate. 
And he returning see himself too late ? 
For work we must, and what we see, we 

see. 
And God he knows, and what must be, 

must be 
When sweethearts wander far away 

from me. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 

The sky behind is brightening up anew 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie), 
The rain is ending, and our journey too : 
Heigho ! aha ! for hei'e at home aie we : — 
in, Rose, and in. Provence and La Palie. 

1863. 

CURRENTE GALA MO 

Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize 
Amid the snowy Pyrenees ; 
More evanescent than the snow, 
The pictures come, are seen, and go : 
Quick, quick, currente calamo. 



I do not ask the tints that fill 
The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill ; 
I ask not for the hues that fleet 
Above the distant peaks ; my feet 
Are on a poplar-bordered road. 
Where with a saddle and a load 
A donkey, old and ashen-gray, 
Reluctant works his dusty way. 
Before him, still witli might and main 
Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, 
A girl : before both him and me, 
Frequent she turns and lets me see. 
Unconscious, lets me scan and trace 
The sunny darkjiess of her face 
And outlines full of southern grace. 

Following I notice, yet and yet. 
Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set, 
And black, and blacker e'en than jet, 
Tlie escaping hair that scantly showed, 
Since o'er it in the country mode, 
For winter warmth and summer shade, 
The lajj of scarlet cloth is laid. 
And then, back-falling fi-om the head, 
A crimson kerchief overspread 
Her jacket blue ; thence passing down, 
A skirt of darkest yellow-brown. 
Coarse stuff, allowing to the view 
The smooth limb to the woollen shoe. 

But who — here 's some one following 
too, — 
A priest, and reading at his book ! 
Read on, O priest, and do not look ; 
Consider, — she is but a child, — 
Yet might your fancy be beguiled. 
Read on, O priest, and pass and go ! 
But see, succeeding in a row. 
Two, three, and four, a motley train, 
Musicians wandering back to Spain ; 
With fiddle and with tambourine, 
A man with women following seen. 
What dresses, ribbon ends, and flowers ! 
And, — sigiit to wonder at for hours, — 
The man, — to Phillip has he sat? — 
With butterfly-like velvet hat ; 
One dame his big bassoon conveys, 
On one his gentle arm he lays ; 
They stop, and look, and something say. 
And to " Espaiia" ask the way. 

But while I speak, and point them 
on, 
Alas ! my dearer friends are gone ; 
The dark-eyed maiden and the ass 
Have had the time the bridge to pass. 
Vainly, beyond it far descried. 
Adieu, and peace with you abide, 
Gray donkey, and your beauteous guide. 
The pictures come, the pictures go, 
Quick, quick, currente calamo. 

From Mari Magno, 1862. 



704 



BRITISH POETS 



1 



COME, POET, COME! 

Come. Poet, come ! 
A thousand laborers ply their task, 
And what it tends to scarcely ask, 
And trembling thinkers on the brink 
Shiver, and know not how to think. 
To tell tlie purjiort of tlieir pain. 
And what our silly joys contain ; 
In lasting lineaments portray 
The substance of the shadowy day ; 
Our real and inner deeds reliearse. 
And niake our meaning clear in verse : 
Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
We do the work or feel the pain , 
And gather up the seeming gain. 
Unless before the end thou come 
To take, ere they are lost, their sum. 

Come, Poet, come ! 
To give an utterance to the dumb, 
And make vain babblers silent, come ; 
A thousand dupes point here and tliere. 
Bewildered by the show and glare ; 
And wise men half have learned to 

doubt 
Wliether we are not best witliout. 
Come, Poet ; both but wait to see 
Their error proved to them in tliee. 

Come, Poet, come ! 

In vain I seem to call. And yet 

Tliink not tlie living times forget. 

Ages of lieroes fought and fell 

Tliat Homer in the end might tell ; 

O'er grovelling generations past 

Upstood the Doric fane at last ; 

And countless hearts on countless years 

Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and 

fears. 
Rude laughter and unmeaning tears. 
Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
The pure perfection of her dome. 
Others, I doubt not, if not we, 
The issue of our toils shall see ; 
Young children gather as their own 
The harvest that the dead had sown. 
The dead forgotten and unknown. 

1863. 

THE HIDDEN LOVE 

O LET me love my love unto myself alone, 

And know my knowledge to tlie world 
unknown ; 

No witness to my vision call, 

Beholding, unbeheld of all ; 

And worship Thee, with Thee with- 
drawn apart, 



Whoe'er, Whate'er Thou art. 
Within the closest veil of mine own in- 
most heart. 

What is it then to me 

If others are inquisitive to see ? 

Why should I quit my place to go and 

ask 
If other men are working at their task ? 
Leave my own bui-ied roots to go 
And see that brother plants shall grow ; 
And turn away from Thee, O Thou most 

Holy Light 
To look if other orbs tlieir orbits keep 

aright. 
Around their proper sun. 
Deserting Thee, and being undone. 

O let me love my love unto myself alone. 
And know my knowledge to the world 

unknown ; 
And worship Thee, O hid One, O much 

sought. 
As but man can or ought. 
Within the abstracted'st shrine of my 

least breathed on thought. 

Better it were, thou sayest, to consent ; 

Feast while we may, and live ere life be 
spent ; 

Close up clear eyes, and call the un- 
stable sure. 

The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure ; 

In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll. 

And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the 
soul. 

Nay, better far to mark off thus much 

air. 
And call it Heaven : yyliu-e bliss and 

glory there ; [sky, 

Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial 
And say, what is not, will be by-and-bye. 

1869. 

PERCHE PENSA ? PENSANDO S' IN- 
VECCHIA 

To spend uncounted years of pain. 

Again, again, and yet again. 

In working out in heart and brain 

The problem of our being here ; 
To gather facts from far and near, 
Upon the mind to hold them clear, 
And, knowing more may yet appear, 
Unto one's latest breath to fear, 
The premature result to draw — 
Is this the object, end and law. 

And purpose of our being here ? 

1869. 



CLOUGH 



705 



LIFE IS STRUGGLE 

To wear out heart, and nerves, and 

brain, 
And give oneself a world of pain ; 
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot, 
Imperious, supple — God knows what, 
For wluit's all one to liave or not ; 
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
For 'tis not joy. it is not gain, 
It is not in itself a bliss. 
Only it is precisely this 
That keeps us all alive. 

To say we truly feel the pain. 
And quite are sinking with the strain ; — 
Entirely, simply, undeceived. 
Believe, and say we ne'er believed 
The object, e'en were it achieved, 
A thing we e'er had cared to keep ; 
With heart and soul to hold it cheap. 
And tlieu to go and try it again ; 
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
O, 'tis not joy, and 'tis not bliss, 
Only it is precisely this 

That keeps us still alive. 1869. 

SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF 
DEATH 

If it is thou whose casual hand with- 
draws 
Wliat it at first as casually did make. 
Say what amount of ages it will take 
With tardy rare concurrences of laws, 
And subtle multiplicities of cause, 
Tlie thing the.y once had made us to re- 
make ; [awake, 
May hopes dead slumbering dare to re- 
E'en after utmost iiiterval of pause. 
What revolutions must have passed, be- 
fore 
The great celestial cj-cles shall restore 
The starry sign whose present lujur is 

gone ; 
Wliat worse than dubious chances inter- 
pose, [pose 
Witli cloud and sunny gleam to recom- 
The skiey picture we had gazed upon. 



But if as not by tliat the soul desired 
Swayed in the judgment, wisest men 

have thought 
And funiishing the evidence it sought, 
Man's lieart hatli ever fervently required. 
And story, for that reason deemed in- 
spired, 

4S 



To every clime, in every age, hath 

taught ; 
If in tliis human complex tliere be aught 
Not lost in death, as not in birth acquired , 
O then, though cold the lips tliat did 

convey 
Rich freights of meaning, dead each liv- 
ing sphere 
Where thought abode, and fancy loved 

to play. 
Thou yet, we think, somewhere somehow 

still art. 
And satisfied vi^ith that the patient heart 
The where and how doth not desire to 
hear. 1869. 

IN A LONDON SQUARE 

Put forth tliy leaf, thou lofty plane. 

East wind and frost are safely gone ; 
With zephj-r mild and balmy rain 

Tlie summer comes serenely on ; 
Eartli, air. and sun and skies combine 

To proinise all that's kind and fair : — 
But tliou, O human heart of mine. 

Be still, contain thyself, and bear. 

December days were brief and chill, 
The winds of March were wild and 
drear. 
And, nearing and receding still. 
Spring never would, we thought, be 
here. 
The leaves that burst, the suns that shine. 
Had, not tlieless, theircertain date: — 
And tliou. O human heart of mine, 
Be still, refrain th3'self, and wait. 

1869. 

ALL IS WELL 

Whate'er you dream, with doubt 

possessed. 
Keep, kee]> it snug within your breast. 
And lay you down and take your rest ; 
Forget in sleep the doubt and pain. 
And wlien you wake, to work again. 
The wind it blows, the vessel goes. 
And where and whither, no one knows. 

'Twill all be well : no need of care ; 
Though how it will, and wlien, and 

wliere. 
We cannot see, and can't declare. 
In spite of dreams, in spite of tliought, 
'Tis not in vain, and not for nonglit. 
The wind it blows, the ship it goes. 
Though where and wliither, no one 

knows. 1869. 



ARNOLD 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

Complete Works, 14 volumes ; Poetical Works, 3 volumes ; Poetical 
Works, Globe Edition, 1 volume ; Selected Poems (Golden Treasury 
Series), The Macmillan Co. Letters, 2 volumes, see below. 

Biography 

* Letters of Matthew Arnold, edited by G. W. E. Russell, 2 volumes, 
1899. Fitch (Joshua), Thomas and Matthew Arnold (Great Educators 
Series). Thorxe (W. H.), Life of Matthew Arnold, 1887. *Gaenett 
(R.), Arnold, in the Dictionary of National Biography. Saintsbury 
(George), Life of Matthew Arnold (Modern English Writers), 1899. Paul 
(H. W.), Matthew Arnold (English Men of Letters Series), 1902. Russell 
(G. W. E.), Matthew Arnold (Literary Lives), 1904. 

Reminiscences and Early Criticism 

Fakrar (F. W.), Men I Have Known. Clough (A. H.), Prose Remains 
(originally in the North American Review, July, 18.53). * Roscoe ( W. C), 
Poems and Essays, Vol. II ; The Classical School of English Poetry, Mat- 
thew Arnold, 1859. * Swinburne, Essays and Studies : Matthew Arnold's 
New Poems (Originally in the Fortnightly Review, October, 1867). For-. 
MAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets : Matthew Arnold (Originally in Tinsley's 
Magazine, September, 1868). Austin (Alfred), The Poetry of the Period 
(Originally in Temple Bar, August and September, 1869). Whipple 
(E. P.), Recollections : Matthew Arnold, 1887. 

Later Criticism 

Birkell (Augustine), Res Judicatse; Papers and Essays. Burroughs 
(John), The Light of Day : Spiritual Insight of Matthew Arnold. Dow- 
den (Edward), Transcripts and Studies. Garnett (Richard), Essays of 
an Ex-Librarian. * Gates (L. E.), Three Studies in Literature. Gates 
(L. E.), Studies and Appreciations : The Return of Conventional Life. 
Harrison (Frederic), The Choice of Books. Harrison (Frederic), 

706 



II 



ARNOLD 707 

Tennyson, Ruskin, Mill, and Other Literary Estimates. Henley 
(W. E.), Views and Reviews. Hudson (W. H.), Studies in Inter- 
pretation. * HuTTON (R. H.), Literary Essays. Modern Guides of Eng- 
lish Thought in Matters of Faith. Mustard (W. P.), Homeric Echoes 
in ]\[atthew Arnold's Balder. Nencioxi (E.), Letteratura Inglese. Oli- 
PMANT (^hxrgaret), Victorian Age of English Literature. Paii, (H. W.), 
Men and Letters : Matthew Arnold's Letters. SAiNTSuujiv (Cxeorge), Cor- 
rected Impressions. * Stedmax (E. C.), Mctorian Poets. Stephen (Les- 
lie), Studies of a Biographer. Tuaill (H. D.), New Fiction and Other 
Essays on Literary Subjects. *Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. 
Cheney (J. V.)^ The Golden Guess. Dawson (W. IL), :\hitthew Arnold 
and His Relation to the Thought of Our Time. Dawsox ( W. J.), Makers 
of Modern English. Dixon (\v. M.) English Poetry : Blake to Browning. 
Duff (M. E. G.), Out of the Past. Galton (A.), Urbana Scripta. 
Galton (A.), Two Essays on Matthew Arnold, with Some of His Letters 
to the Author, MacArthur (Henry), Realism and Romance. Nadal 
(E. S.) Essays at Home and Elsewhere. Selkirk (J. B.), Ethics and Ms- 
thetics of Modern Poetry : Modern Creeds and Modern Poetry. Sharp 
(Amy), Victorian Poets. ' Stearns (F. P.), Sketches from Concord and 
Appledore. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Walker 
(Hugh), The Great Victorian Poets. 

Tributes in Verse 

BouRDiLLON (F. W.), Sursum Corda : To Matthew Arnold in America. 
Shairp (J. C), Glen d'Esseray and Other Poems: Balliol Scholars, 1840- 
1848 ; A Remembrance. Truman (Joseph), Afterthoughts : Laleham, a 
Poem. 

Bibliooraphy 
* Smart (Thomas B.), The Bibliography of Matthew Arnold. 



> 



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I 



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CD 



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Vl rv 



^ 



QUIET WORK 

One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 
One lesson which in every wind is 

blown, 
One lesson of two duties kept at one 
Though the loud world proclaim their 

enmity — 
Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity ! 
Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
Far noisier schemes, accomplislTd in 

repose. 
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry ! 
Yes, while on earth a thousand discords 

ring, 
Man's fitful uproar mingling with his 

toil. 
Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, 
Tlieir glorious tasks in silence perfect- 
ing ; 
Still working, blaming still our vain 

turmoil. 
Laborers that shall not fail, when man 

is gone. 1849. 



TO A FRIEND 

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad 

days, my mind ? — 
He much, the old man, who, clearest- 

soul'd of men. 
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian 

Fen, 
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, 

though blind. 
Miach he, wliose friendsliip I not long 

since won. 
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis 
Tauglit Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal 

son 
Clear'd Rome of what most shamed him. 

But be his 
My special thanks, whose even-balanced 

soul. 
From first youth tested up to extreme 

old age, 



Business could not make dull, nor pas- 
sion wild ; 
Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole ; 
The mellow glory of the Attic stage, 
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. 

1849. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others abide our question. Thou art 
free. 

We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art 
still. 

Out-topping knowledge. For the lofti- 
est hill, 

Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 

Planting his steadfast footsteps in tlie 
sea. 

Making the heaven of heavens his dwell- 
ing-place. 

Spares but the cloudy border of liis base 

To the foil'd searching of mortality ; 

And thou, who didst the stars and sun- 
beams know, 

Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honor'd, 
self-secure. 

Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — 
Better so ! 

All pains the immortal spirit must 
endure. 

All weakness whicli impairs, all griefs 
which bow. 

Find their sole speecli in that victorious 
brow. 1849. 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away ; 
Down and away below ! 
Now my brothei-s call from the bay. 
Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
Now the wild wliite horses play. 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us awaj' ! 
This way, tliis way ! 



708 



^P-^'" ' 



ARNOLD 



709 



Call her once before you go — 

Call once yet ! 

In a voice that she will know : 

" Margaret ! Margaret ! " 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more) to a motiier's ear ; 

Children's voices, wild witli pain — 

Surely she will come again ! 

(.'all her once and come away ; 

This way. this way ! 

"Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 

The wild white Iiorses foam and fret." 

Jlargaret ! IMargaret ! 

Come, dear c;hildren, come away down ; 
Call no more I 

One last look at the wliite-wall'd town, 
And the little gray church on the v^^indy 

shore, 
Then come down ! 
She will not come though you call all 

day : 
Come away, come away ! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the 

bay? 
In the caverns where we lay, 
Througli the surf and through the swell. 
The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. 
Where the winds are all asleep ; 
Where the spent lights qviiver and 

gleam, 
Where the salt weed sways in the 

stream. 
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture- 
ground ; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
Where great whales come sailing by. 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
Round the world for ever and aye ? 
Wlien did music come this way ? 
Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yestei'day 

(Call yet once) that she went away ? 

Once she sate witii you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the 

sea. 
And the youngest sate on her knee. 
She conib'd its bright hair, and she 

tended it well, 
Wlien down swung the sound of a far-off 

bell. 
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the 

clear green sea ; 



She said : " I must go. for my kinsfolk 

pray 
In the little gray church on the shore to- 
day. 
'T will be Easter-time in the world — ah 

me ! 
And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here 

with thee." 
I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the 

waves ; 
Say thy prayer, and come back to the 

kind sea-caves ! " 
She smiled, she went up through the 

surf in the bay. 
Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone ? 
" The sea grows stormy, the little ones 

moan ; 
Long prayers,' I said, " in the world 

they say ; 
Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the 

surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy 

down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the 

white-wall'd town ; 
Through tlie narrow paved streets, where 

all was still. 
To the little gray church on the windy 

hill. 
From the church came a murmur of 

folk at their prayers.. 
But we stood without in the cold blow- 
ing airs. 
We cliinb'd on the graves, on the stones 

worn with rains, 
And we gazed up the aisle through the 

small leaded panes. 
She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
•'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are 

here ! 
Dear heart," I said, " we are long alone ; 
Tlie sea grows stormy, the little ones 

moan." 
But, ah. she gave me never a look, 
For her eyes were seal'd to the holy 

book ! 
Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the 

door. 
Come away, children, call no more ! 
Come away, come down, call no more ! 

Down, down, down ! 
Down to the depths of the sea ! 
She sits at her wheel in the humming 

town. 
Singing most joyfully. 
Hark what she sings : '• O joy, O joy. 



7IO 



BRITISH POETS 



For the humming street, and tlie child 
with its toy ! [well ; 

For the priest and the bell, and the holy 
For the wheel where I spun. 
And the blessed light of the sun ! " 
And so she sings her fill, 
Singing most joyfully. 
Till the spindle drops from her hand. 
And the w-hizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at 

•the sand, 
And over the sand at the sea ; 
And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
And anon there breaks a sigh, 
And anon there drops a tear. 
From a son-ow-clouded eye. 
And a heart sorrow-laden. 
A long, long sigh : 
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mer- 

maiden 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away children ; 
Come children, come down ! 
The hoarse wind blows coldly ; 
Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door ; 
She will hear the winds howling. 
Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 
Singing: " Here came a mortal. 
But faithless was she ! 
And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight, 

When soft the winds blow. 

When clear falls the moonlight, 

When spring tides are low ; 

When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starr'd with broom. 

And high rocks throw mildly 

On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 

Up the still, glistening beaches. 

Up the creeks we will hie, 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand hills. 

At the white, sleeping town ; 

At the church on the hill-side — 

And then come back down. 

Singing : " There dwells a loved one. 

But cruel is she ! 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea." 1849. 



THE STRAYED REVELLER 

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE 
EVENING 

A Youth. Circe 
The Youth 

Faster, faster, 

Circe, Goddess, 

Let the wild, thronging train, 
The bright procession 
Of eddying forms. 
Sweep through my soul ! 

Thou standest, smiling 

Down on me ! tliy right arm, 

Lean'd up against the column there, 

Props thy soft clieek ; 

Tln^ left holds, hanging loosely. 

The deep cup, ivj-cinctured, 

1 held but now. 

Is it, then, evening 
So soon ? I see, the night-dews, 
Clustei-'d in thick beads, dim 
The agate brooch-stones 
On thy white shoulder ; 
The cool night-wind, too. 
Blows throiigh the portico, 
Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 
Waves thy white robe ! 

Circe 

AVhence art thou, sleeper ? 

The Youth 

When the white dawn first , 

Through the rough fir-planks 

Of my hut, by the chestnuts. 

Up at tlie valley-head. 

Came bi'eaking. Goddess ! 

I sjnang up, I threw round me 

My dappled fawn-skin ; 

Passing out, from the wet turf, 

Wliere tliey lay, by the hut door, 

I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 

All drench'd in dew — 

Came swift down to join 

The rout early gather'd 

In the town, round the temple, 

lacchus' white fane 

On yonder hill. 

Quick I pass'd, following 
The wood-cutters' cart-track 
Down the dark valley ; — I saw 
On my left, througli the beeches, 



ARNOLD 



711 



Tliy palace, Goddess, 

Smokeless, empty ! 

Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld 

The court all silent, 

The lions sleeping. 

On the altar this bowl. 

I drank. Goddess ! 

And sank down here, sleeping, 

On the steps of thy portico. 

Circe 

Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? 
Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? 
Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows, 
Through the delicate, flush'd marble. 
The red, creaming liquor, 
Strown with dark seeds ! 
Drink, then ! I cliide thee not. 
Deny thee not my bowl. 
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so ! 
Drink — drink again ! 

Tlie Youth 

Thanks, gracious one ! 
Ah, tlie sweet fumes again ! 
More soft, ah me, 
More subtle-winding 
Than Pan's flute-music ! 
Faint — faint ! Ah me, 
Again the sweet sleep ! 

Cb'ce 

Hist ! Tliou — within there I 
Come forth . Ulysses ! 
Art tired with hunting ? 
While we range the woodland, 
See what the day brings. 

Ulysses 

Ever new magic ! 

Hast thou then lured hither, 

Wonderful Goddess, by thy art. 

The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 

lacchus' darling — 

Or some youth beloved of Pan, 

Of Pan and the Nymphs? 

That he sits, bending downward 

His white, delicate neck 

To the ivy- wreathed marge 

Of thy cup ; the bright, glancing vine- 
leaves 

That crown his hair. 

Falling forward, mingling 

With the dark ivy-plants — 

His fawn-skin, half untied, 

Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is 
he, 

That he sits, overweigh'd 



By fumes of wine and sleep. 

So late, in thj' portico ? 

What youtli, Goddess, — what guest 

Of Gods or mortals ? 

Circe 

Hist ! he wakes ! 

I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 

Nay, ask him I 

The Youth 

Who speaks ? Ah, who comes foi'th 

To thy side, Goddess, from within ? 

How shall I name him ? 

This spare, dark-featured, 

Quick-eyed stranger ? 

Ah, and I see too 

His sailor's bonnet. 

His sliort coat, travel tarnish'd, 

With one arm bare ! — 

Art thou not he, w4ioni fame 

This long time rumors 

The favor'd guest of Circe, brought by 

the waves ? 
Art thou he, stranger ? 
The wise Ulysses, 
Laertes' son ? 

Ulysses 

I am Ulysses. 

And thou, too, sleeper ? 

Thy voice is sweet. 

It may be thou hast foUow'd 

Through the islands some divine bard. 

By age taught many things, 

Age and the Muses ; 

And heard him delighting 

The chiefs and people 

In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, 

Of Gods and Heroes, 

Of war and arts. 

And peopled cities, 

Inland, or built 

By the graj' sea. — If so, then hail ! 

I honor and welcome thee. 

Tlie Youth 

The Gods are happy. 
They turn on all sides 
Their shining eyes. 
And see below them 
The earth and men. 

They see Tiresias 
Sitting, staff in hand, 
On the warm, grassy 
Asopus bank. 
His robe drawn over 



712 



BRITISH POETS 



His old, sightless head, 

Revolving inly 

The doom of Thebes. 

They see the Centaurs 
In the upper glens 
Of Pelion, in the streams, 
Where red-berried ashes fringe 
The clear-brown shallow pools. 
With streaming flanks, and heads 
Rear'd proudly, snuffing 
The mountain wind. 

Tliey see the Indian 
Drifting, knife in hand. 
His frail boat moor"d to 
A floating isle thick-matted 
With large-leaved, low-creei^ing melon- 
plants, 
And the dark cucumber. 
He reaps, and stows them, 
Drifting — drifting : — round him, 
Round liis green harvest-plot. 
Flow the cool lake-waves. 
The mountains ring them. 

They see the Scythian 

On tlie wide stepp, unharnessing 

His vvheel'd house at noon. 

He tet[iers his beast down, and makes 

his meal — 
Mares' milk, and bread 
Baked on the embers ; — all ai'ound 
The boundless, waving grass-plains 

stretch, thick-star r'd 
With saffron and tlie yellow^ hollyhock 
And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 
Sitting in his cart [miles. 

He makes his meal ; before him, for long 
Alive with bright green lizards. 
And the springing bustard-fowl, 
The track, a straight black line, 
Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 
Clusters of lonely mounds 
ToppVl with rougii-hewn, 
Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 
The sunny waste. 

They see the ferry 
On the broad, clay-laden 
Lone Chorasmian stream ; thereon. 
With snort and strain. 
Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 
To either bow 

Firm harness'd by the mane ; a chief 
With shout and sliaken spear. 
Stands at the prow, and guides them ; 
but astern 



The cowering merchants, in long robes, 

Sit pale beside their wealth 

Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops. 

Of gold and ivory, 

Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 

Jasper and chalcedony, 

And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. 

Tlie loaded boat swings groaning 

In the yellow eddies ; 

The Gods behold them. 

They see the Heroes 

Sitting in the dark ship 

On the foamless, long-heaving 

A^iolet sea. 

At sunset nearing 

The Happy Islands. 

These things. Ulysses, 
The wise bards also 
Behold and sing. 
But oh, what labor I 
O prince, what pain ! 

They too can see 
Tiresias ; — but the Gods, 
Wlio give them vision. 
Added this law : 
That they sliould bear too 
His groping blindness. 
His dark foreboding. 
His scorn'd while hairs ; 
Bear Hera's anger 
Througli a life lengthen'd 
To .seven ages. 

They see the Centaurs 

On Pelion ; — then tliey feel, 

They too, the maddening wine 

Swell their large veins to bursting ; in 

wild pain 
They feel the biting spears 
Of the grim Lapitha^. and Theseus, drive. 
Drive crashing through their bones; 

they feel 
High on a jutting rock in the red stream 
Alcmena's dreadful son 
Ply his bow ; such a price 
The God« exact for song : 
To become what we sing. 

They see the Indian 

On his mountain lake ; but squalls 

Make their skiff reel, and worms 

In the unkind spring have gnawn 

Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They 

see 
The Scythian ; but long frosts 
Parch them in winter-time on the bare 

stepp. 



ARNOLD 



713 



Till they too fade like grass ; they crawl 
Like shadows forth in spring. 

They see the merchants 

On the Oxus stream ; — but care 

Must visit first them too, and make 

them pale. 
Whether, through whirling sand, 
A cloud of desert robber-horse have 

burst 
Upon their caravan ; or greedy kings. 
In the vvaird cities the way passes 

through, 
Crush'd them with tolls : or fever-airs. 
On some great river's marge, 
Mown them down, far from home. 

They see the Heroes 

Near harbor ; — but they share 

Their lives, and former violent toil in 

Thebes. 
Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; 
Or where the echoing oars 
Of Argo first 
Startled the unknown sea. 

The old Silenus 

Came, lolling in the sunshine, 

From the dewy forest-coverts, 

This way at noon. 

Sitting by me, while his Fauns 

Down at the water-side 

Sprinkled and smoothed 

His drooping garland, 

He told me these things. 

But I, Ulysses, 
Sitting on the warm steps, 
Looking over the valley. 
All day long, have seen. 
Without pain, without labor, 
Sometimes a wild-hair'd Msenad — 
Sometimes a Faun with torches — 
And sometimes, for a moment, 
Passing through the dark stems 
Flowing-robed, the beloved, 
The desire, tlie divine, 
Beloved lacchus. 

Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars ! 

Ah. glimmering water. 

Fitful earth-murmur. 

Dreaming woods ! 

Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling 

Goddess, 
And thou, proved, mucli enduring, 
Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! 
Who can stand still V 
Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — 
The cup again ! 



Faster, faster, 

O Circe, Goddess. 

Let the wild, thronging train, 

The bright procession 

Of eddying forms, 

Sweep through my soul ! 

MEMORIAL VERSES 



1849. 



April, 1850 

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
But one such death remain'd to come ; 
The last poetic voice is dinnb — 
We stand to-day by WordswortlTstomb. 

When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
He taught us little ; but our soul 
H-dd felt him like the thunder's roll. 
With shivering heart tlie strife we saw 
Of passion witli eternal law ; 
And yet witli reverential awe 
We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
Which served for that Titanic strife. 

When Goethe's death was told, we 

said : 
Sunk, tlien, is Europe's sagest head. 
Phj^sician of tlie iron age, 
Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
He took the suffering human race. 
He read each wound, each weakness 

clear ; 
And struck his finger on the place, 
And said : Tlion ailest here, and here ! 
He look'd on Europe's dying hovu- 
Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
His eye plunged down the weltering 

strife. 
The turmoil of expii'ing life — 
He said : The end is everywhere. 
Art still has truth, fake refuge there! 
And he was happy, if to know 
Causes of things, and far below 
His feet to see the lurid flow 
Of terror, and insane distress, 
And headlong fate, be happiness. 

And Wordsworth !— Ah, pale ghosts, 

x'ejoice ! 
For never has such soothing voice 
Been to your shadowy world convey'd. 
Since erst, at morn, some wandering 

shade 
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
Through Hades, and the mournful 

gloom. 



714 



BRITISH POETS 



Wordsvvoi'th has gone from us — and ye, 
Ah, may ye feel liis voice as we ! 
He too vipon a wintry clime 
Had fallen — on tliis iron time 
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
He found us when the age had bound 
Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
He laid us as we lay at birth 
On the cool flowery lap of earth. 
Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
The hills were round us, and the breeze 
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
Our youth returned ; for there was shed 
On spirits that had long been defid, 
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
The freshness of the early world. 

Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
Man's prudence and man's fiery might. 
Time may restore us in his course 
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
But where will Europe's latter hour 
Again find Wordsworth's healing 

power ? 
Others will teach us how to dare, 
And against fear our breast to steel : 
Others will strengthen us to bear — 
But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
The cloud of mortal destiny. 
Others will front it fearlessly — 
But who, like him, will put it by ? 

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave 
O Rotha, with tliy living wave ! 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 

1850. 

SELF-DECEPTION 

Say, what blinds us, that we claim the 

glory 
Of possessing powers not our share? 
— Since man woke on earth, he knows 

his story. 
But, before we woke on earth, we were. 

Long, long since, undower'd yet, our 
spirit 

Roam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God ; 

Saw the gifts, the powers it might in- 
herit, 

Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. 

Then, as now, this tremulous, eager 

being 
Strain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift 

it saw ; 



Then, as now, a Power beyond our see- 
ing. 

Staved us back, ana gave our choice the 
law. 

Ah, whose hand tl\at day through 
Heaven guided 

Man's new spirit, since it was not we? 

All, who swayed our choice and who de- 
cided 

What our gifts, and what our wants 
should be ? 

. For, alas ! he left us eacli retaining 
Siueds of gifts which he refused in full. 
Still these waste us with their hopeless 

straining, 
Still tlie attempt to use them proves 

tlieni null. 

And on earth we wander, groping, reel- 
ing ; 

Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. 

Ah ! and he, who placed our master- 
feeling, 

Fail'd to place that master- feeling clear. 

We but dream we have our wish'd-for 

powers. 
Ends we seek we never shall attain. 
Ah ! some power exists there, which is 

ours ? 
Souie end is there, we indeed may gain? 

1852. 

THE SECOND BEST 

Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, 
Quiet living, strict-kept measure 
Both in suffering and in pleasure — 
'Tis for this thy nature yearns. 

But so many books thou readest. 
But so many schemes thou breedest, 
But so many wishes feedest. 
That thy poor head almost turns. 

And (the world 's so madly jangled, 
Human things so fast entangled) 
Nature's wish must now be strangled 
For tliat best which she discerns. 

So it mitst be ! yet. while leading 
A strain'd life, while overfeeding. 
Like the rest, his wit with reading, 
No small profit that man earns. 

Who through all he meets can steer him, 
Can reject what cannot clear him. 
Cling to what can truly cheer him ; 
Who each day more surely learns 



ARNOLD 



715 



That an innnilse, from tlie distance 
Of his deepest, best existence, 
To the words, " Hope, Light, Persist- 
ence," 
Strongly sets and truly burns. 

1852. 

LYRIC STANZAS OF EMPEDOCLES 

The out-spread world to span 
A cord the Gods first slung, 
And then tlie soul of man 
There, like a mirror, hung. 
And bade tlie winds tiirough space im- 
pel tlie gust}' toy. 

Hither and tliither spins 
The wind-borne, mirroring soul, 
A thousand glimpses wins. 
And never sees a whole ; 
Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and 
leaves its last employ. 

The Gods laugh in their sleeve 
To watch man doubt and fear 
Who knows not wliat to believe 
Since he sees nothing; clear. 
And dares stamp nothing false where 
he finds notliing sure. 

Is this, Pausanias, so? 
And can our souls not strive. 
But with tlie winds must go. 
And hurry wliere they drive? 
Is fate indeed so strong, man's strengtii 
indeed so poor ? 

I will not judge. That man, 
Howbeit, I judge as lost. 
Whose mind allows a plan. 
Which would degrade it most ; 
And he treats doubt the best who tries 
to see least ill. 

Be not, tlien, fear's blind slave! 
Thou art my friend ; to thee. 
All knowledge that I have, 
All skill I wield, are free. 
Aslc not the latest news of the last mir- 
acle, 

Ask not what days and nights 
In trance Pantheia lay. 
But ask how tliou svicli sights 
May'st see without dismay ; 
Ask what most lielps when known, thou 
son of Anchitus ! 

What ? hate, and awe, and shame 
Fill thee to see our time ; 



Tliou feelest thy soul's frame 
Shaken and out of ciiime? 
Wliat ? life and cliance go hard with tliee 
too, as witii us ; 

Tiiy citizens, 'tis said, 
Envy thee and oppress, 
Thy goodness no men aid. 
All strive to make it less ; 
Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's 
abodes ; 

Heaven is with eai'tli at strife, 
Signs make tli.y soul afraid, 
Tlie dead retnin to life. 
Rivers are dried, winds stay'd ; 
Scarce can one think in c:Jm, so tlii'eat- 
ening are tlie Gods ; 

And we feel, day and night, 
Tlie burden of ourselves — 
Well, then, the wiser wight 
In his own bosom delves. 
And asks what ails him so, and gets 
what cure he can. 

The sophist sneers : Fool, take 
Thy pleasure, right or wrong. 
The pious wail : Forsake 
A world these sophists throng. 
Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a 
man ! 

These hundred doctors try 
To preach thee to their school. 
We have the truth ! they cry ; 
And yet their oracle. 
Trumpet it as they will, is but the same 
as thine. 

Once read thy own breast right. 
And thou hast done with fears ; 
Man gets no other light, 
Search he a thousand j^ears. 
Sink in thyself ! there ask what ails thee, 
at that shrine ! 

What makes thee struggle and rave ? 
Why are men ill at ease ? — 
'Tis that the lot they have 
Fails their own will to please ; 
For man would make no murmuring, 
were his will obey'd. 

And why is it, that still 
Man with his lot thus fights?— 
'Tis that he makes this ?(v7Z 
The measure of his rights. 
And believes Nature outraged if his will's 
gainsaid. 



A\ 



<. 



^' >< 



7i6 



BRITISH POETS 



Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn 
How deep a fault is this ; 
Couldst thou but once discern 
Thou hast no right to bliss, 
No title from the Gods to welfare and 
repose ; 

Then thou wouldst look less mazed 
Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, 
Nor think tlie Gods were crazed 
When tliy own lot went hard. 
But we are all tlie same — the fools of our 
own woes ! 

For. from the first faint morn 
Of life, the thirst for bliss 
Deep in man's heart is born ; 
And, sceptic as he is. 
He fails not to judge clear if this be 
quench'd or no. 

Nor is tlie thirst to blame. 
Man errs not that he deems 
His welfare his true aim, 
He errs because he dreams 
The world does but exist that welfare to 
bestow. 

We mortals ai'e no kings 
For each of whom to sway 
A new-made world up-springs, 
Meant merely for his play : 
No, we are strangers here ; the world is 
from of old. 

In vain our pent wills fret, 
And would the world subdue. 
Limits we did not set 
Condition all we do ; 
Born into life we are, and life must be 
our mould. 

Born into life I — man grows 
Forth from his parents' stem. 
And blends their bloods, as those 
Of theirs are blent in them ; 
So each new man strikes root into a far 
fore-time. 

Born into life ! — we bring 
A bias with us here. 
And, when here, each new thing 
Affects us we conre near ; 
To tunes we did not call our being must 
keep chime. 

Born into life ! — in vain, 
Opinions, those or these, 
Unalter'd to retain 



The obstinate mind decrees ; 
Experience, like a sea, soaks all-eflfacing 
in. 

Born into life !^ — who lists 
May what is false hold dear, 
And for himself make mists 
TJirough which to see less clear : 
The world is what it is, for all our dust 
and din. 

Born into life I — 'tis we, 
And not tlie world, are new ; 
Our cry for bliss, our plea. 
Others have urged it too — 
Our wants have all been felt, our errors 
made before. 

No eye could be too sound 
To observe a world .so vast, 
No patience too profound 
To sort what's here amass'd ; 
How man may here best live no care 
too great to explore. 

But we — as some rude guest 
Would change, where'er he roam, 
Tlie manners there profess'd 
To those he brings from home — 
AVe mark not the world's course, but 
would have it take ours. 

The world's course proves the terms 
On which man wins content ; 
Reason the proof confirms — 
We spurn it, and invent 
A false course for the world, and for 
ourselves, false powers. 

Riches we wish to get. 
Yet remain spendthrifts still ; 
We would have health, and yet 
Still use our bodies ill ; 
Bafflers of our own praj'ers, from youlli 
to life's last scenes. 

We would have inward peace. 
Yet will not look within ; 
We would have misery cease. 
Yet will not cease from sin ; 
We want all pleasant ends, but will use 
no harsh means ; 

We do not what we ought, 
What we ought not, we do. 
And lean upon the thought 
That chance will bring us through ; 
But our own acts, for good or ill, are 
mightier powers. 



ARNOLD 



717 



I 



Yet, even wlieu man forsakes 
All sin, — is just, is pure. 
Abandons all whicli makes 
His welfare insecure, — 
Otiier existences there are, that clash 
with ours. 

Like us, the lightning-fires 
Love to have scope and play ; 
The stream, like us, desires 
An unimpeded way ; 
Like us, the Libyan wind delights to 
roam at large. 

Streams will not curb their pride 
The just man not to entomb, 
Nor lightnings go aside 
To give his virtues room : 
Nor is that wind less rougli which blows 
a good man's barge. 

Nature, with equal mind. 
Sees all her sons at play ; 
Sees man control the wind. 
The wind sweep man away ; 
Allows the proudly-riding and the 
foundering bark. 

And, lastly, though of ours 
No weakness spoil our lot. 
Though the non -human powers 
Of Natui'e harm us not, 
The ill deeds of other men make often 
our life dark. 

What were the wise man's plan ? — 
Through tliis sharp, toil-set life. 
To work as best he can. 
And win what's won by strife. — 
But we an easier way to clieat our pains 
have found. 

Scratch'd by a fall, with moans 
As children of weak age 
Lend life to the dumb stones 
Whereon to vent tlieir rage. 
And bend their little fists, and rate the 
senseless ground ; 

So, loath to suffer mute, 
We, peopling the void air. 
Make Gods to wliom to impute 
The ills we ought to bear ; 
With God and Fate to rail at, suffering 
easily. 

Yet grant — as sense long miss'd 
Things that are now perceived, 
And much may still exist 



Which is not yet believed — 
Grant that the world were full of Gods 
we cannot see ; 

All things the world which fill 
Of but one stuff are spun. 
That we who rail are still, 
With what we rail at, one ; 
One with the o'erlabored Power that 
through the breadth and length 

Of earth, and air. and sea. 
In men, and plants, and stones. 
Hath toil perjjetually, 
And travails, pants, and moans ; 
Fain would do all things well, but some- 
times fails in strength. 

And patiently exact 
This universal God 
Alike to any act 
Proceeds at any nod. 
And quietly declaims the cursings of 
himself. 

This is not what man hates. 
Yet lie can curse but this. 
Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 
Are dreams ! this only is 
Is everywhere ; sustains the wise, the 
foolish elf. 

Not only, in the intent 
To attach blame elsewhere. 
Do we at will invent 
Stern Powers who make their care 
To embitter human life, malignant 
Deities ; 

But, next, we would reverse 
Tlie scheme ourselves have spun. 
And what we made to ciu-se 
We now would lean upon. 
And feign kind Gods who perfect what 
man vainly tries. 

Look, the world tempts our eye, 
And we would know it all ! 
We map the starry sky. 
We mine this earthen ball. 
We measure the sea-tides, we nmulier 
the sea-sands ; 

We scrutinise the dates 
Of long-past human things, 
Tlie liounds of effaced states, 
Tlie lines of deceased kings ; 
We searcli out dead men's words, and 
works of dead men's hands ; 



J 



7i8 



BRITISH POETS 



We shut our eyes, and muse 
How our own minds are made, 
What springs of tliought they use, 
How rigliten'd, liow betray'd — 
And spend our wit to name what most 
employ unnamed. 

But still, as we proceed 
The mass swells more and more 
Of volumes yet to read. 
Of secrets yet to explore. 
Our hair grows graj^ our eyes are 
dimm'd, our lieat is tamed ; 

We rest our faculties. 
And thus address the Gods : 
" Ti'ue science if there is, 
It stays in your abodes ! 
Man's measures cannot mete the im- 
measurable All. 

" You only can take in 
The world's immense design. 
Our desperate search was sin. 
Which henceforth we resign, 
Sure only that your mind .sees all things 
which befall." 

Fools ! That in man's brief term 
He cannot all things view, 
Affords no ground to affirm 
That tliere are Gods who do ; 
Nor_does being \yeary prove_that he has 
where to rest. 

Again. — Our youthful blood 
Claims rapture as its right ; 
The world, a rolling flood 
Of newness and delight. 
Draws in the enanior'd gazer to its 
shining breast ; 

Pleasure, to our hot grasp, 
Gives flowers after flowers ; 
With passionate warmth we clasp 
Hand after hand in ours ; 
Now do we soon perceive how fast our 
youth is spent. 

At once our eyes grow clear ! 
We see, in blank dismay, 
Year posting after year. 
Sense after sense decay ; 
Our shivering heart is mined by secret 
discontent ; 

Yet still, in spite of truth. 
In spite of hopes entonib'd, 
That longing of our youth 



Burns ever unconsumed, 
Still hungrier for delight as delights 
grow more rare. 

We pause ; we hush our heart. 
And thus address the Gods : 
'* The world hath fail'd to impart 
The joy our youth forebodes, 
Fail'd to fill up the void whicii in our 
breasts we bear. 

" Changeful till now, we still 
Look'd on to something new ; 
Let us, with changeless will. 
Henceforth look on to you. 
To find with you the joy we in vain here 
require ! "' 

Fools ! That so often here 
Happiness niock'd our prayer, 
I tliink, niiglit make us fear 
A like event elsewhere ; 
Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate 
desire. 

And yet, for those who kuow 
Themselves, who wisely take 
Their way through life, and bow 
To what they cannot bieak. 
Why should I say that life need yield 
but moderate bliss ? 

Shall we, with temper spoil'd, 
Healtii sapp'd by living ill. 
And judgment all embroil'd 
By sadness and self-will. 
Shall we judge what for man is not true 
bliss or is ■? 

Is it so small a thing 

To have enjoy'd the sun, 

To have lived light in the spring. 

To have loved, to have tliought, to 

have done ; 
To have advanced true friends, and beat 

down baffling foes — 

That we must feign a bliss 
Of doubtful future date. 
And, while we dream on this. 
Lose all our present state. 
And relegate to worlds yet distant oin- 
repose ? 

Not much, I know, you prize 
What pleasures may be had, 
AVho look on life with e3''es 
Estranged, like mine, and sad ; 
And yet the village-churl feels the truth 
more than you. 



/> 



,^^ 

'/t^- ^ 



ARNOLD 



719 



Who's loath to leave tliis life 
Which to him little yields — 
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife. 
His often-labor'd fields, 
The boors with whom he talk'd, the 
country -spots he knew. 

But tliou, because thou hear'st 
Men scoff at Heaven and Fate, 
Because the (lods thou fear'wt 
Fail to make blest thj^ state, 
Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust 
the joys there are ! 

I say : Fear not ! Life still 
Leaves human effort scope. 
But, since life teems with ill, 
Nurse no extravagant hope ; 
Because thou must not dream, thou 
need'st not then despair ! 1852. 

CALLICLES' SONG 

FROM EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 

Through the black, rushing sinoke- 

bursts, 
Thick breaks the red flame ; 
All Etna heaves fiercely 
Her forest-clothed frame. 

Not here, O Apollo ! 

Are haunts meet for tliee. 

But, where Helicon breaks down 

In cliff to the sea, 

Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
Send far their light voice 
Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
O speed, and rejoice ! 

On the sward at the cliff-top 
Lie strewn the white flocks. 
On the cliff-side the pigeons 
Roost deep in the rocks. 

In the moonlight the shepherds, 
Soft luird by the rills, 
Lie wrapped in their blankets 
Asleep on the hills. 

— What forms are these coming 
So white through the gloom ? 
What garments out-glistening 
The gold-flower'd broom ? 

What sweet-breathing presence 
Out-perfumes the thyme V 
What voices enrapture 
The night's balmy ijrime ? — 



'Tis Apollo comes leading 
His choir, the Nine. 
— The leader is fairest, 
But all are divine. 

They are lost in the hollows ! 
They stream up again ! 
What seeks on this mountain 
The glorified train ? — 

They bathe on this mountain, 
In the spring by their road ; 
Then on to Olj'mpus, 
Their endless abode. 

— Wliose praise do they mention ? 
Of what is it told ?— 
What will be for ever ; 
What was from of old. 

First hymn they tlie Father 
Of all tilings ; and tlien. 
The rest of immortals. 
The action of men ; 



The day in his hotness, 
Tlie strife witli the palm ; 
The night in her silence, 
The stars in their calm. 



1853. 



THE YOUTH OF NATURE 



Raised are the dripping oars. 

Silent the boat ! tlie lake. 

Lovely and soft as a dream. 

Swims in the siieen of the moon. 

The mountains stand at its head 

Clear in the pure June-night, 

But tlie valleys are floodeil with haze. 

Rydal and Fairfield are tliere ; 

In tlie shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 

80 it is, so it will be for aye. 

Nature is fresli as of old. 

Is lovely ; a mortal is dead. 

The spots which recall him survive. 
For he lent a new life to these hills. 
The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
Wliich border Ennerdale Lake, 
And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
The gleam of Tlie Evening Star 
Twinkles on Grasmere no more, 
But ruin'd and solemn and gray 
The sheepfold of Michael survives ; 
And, far to the south, the lieath 
Still blows in the Quantock coombs 
By the favorite waters of Ruth. 
These survive ! — yet not without pain, 
Pain and dejection to-night. 
Can I feel that their poet is gone. 



720 



BRITISH POETS 



He grew old in an age he condemn'd. 
/ He look'd on the i-ushing decay 
/ Of tlie times which had sheltered his 
/ j'outh, 

I Felt the dissolving throes 
' Of a social order lie loved ; 

Outlived liis brethren, liis peers ; 

And, like the Theban seer, 
\ Died in his enemies' day. 

Cold bubbled tlie spring of Tilphusa, 
Copais lay bright in the moon, 
Helicon glass'd in the lake 
Its firs, and afar rose the peaks 
Of Parnassus, snowily cleai- ; 
TJiebes was behind liim in flames, 
And the clang of arms in his ear. 
When his awe-struck captors led 
Tlie Theban seer to tlie spring. 
Tiresias drank and died. 
Nor did reviving Thebes 
See such a propliet again. 

Well may we mourn, when the head 

Of a sacred poet lies low 

In an age which can rear them no more ! 

The complaining millions of men 

Darken in labor and pain : 

But he was a priest to us all 

Of the wonder and bloom of tlie world, 

Which we saw with his eyes, and were 

glad. 
He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day 
Of his race is past on the eartli : 
.And darkness returns to our eyes. 

For, oh I is it j^ou, is it you. 
Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 
And mountains, tliat fill us with joy. 
Or tlie poet wiio sings you so well ? 
Is it you, O beautjs O grace, 
O charm, O romance, that we feel. 
Or the voice which reveals wliat you are ? 
Are ye, like daylight and sun, 
Sliared and rejoiced in by all ? 
Or are ye immei'sed in the mass 
Of matter, and hard to extract. 
Or sunk at the core of the world 
Too deep for the most to discern ? 
Like stars in the deep of the sky. 
Which arise on the glass of the sage. 
But are lost when their watcher is gone. 

" They are here " — I heard, as men heard 

In Mysian Ida the voice 

Of the Mighty Motlier, or Crete, 

The murmur of Nature reply — 

" Loveliness, magic, and grace. 

They are here ! tliey are set in the world, 

Tliey abide ; and llie finest of souls 



Hath not been thrill'd by them all, 
Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 
Tlie poet who sings them may die, 
But they are immortal and live. 
For they are the life of the world. 
Will }'e not learn it, and know. 
AVhen ye mourn that a poet is dead. 
That the singer was less than his themes, 
Life, and emotion, and I ? 

" More than the singer are these. 

AVeak is the tremor of pain 

That thrills in his movirn fullest chord 

To that which once ran through his soul. 

Cold the elation of joy 

In his gladdest, airiest song. 

To that which of old in his youth 

Fiird iiim and made him divine. 

Hardly his voice at its best 

Gives us a sense of the awe. 

The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 

Of the unlit gulf of himself. 

" Ye know not yourselves ; and your 

bards — 
The clearest, the best, who have read 
Most in themselves — have beheld 
Less than thej^ left unreveard. 
Ye express not yourselves ; — can you 

make 
AVith marble, with color, with word, 
AVhat charm'd you in others re-live? 
Can thy pencil. O artist ! restore 
The figure, the bloom of thy love. 
As she was in her morning of spring ? 
Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 
Of her eyes as they rested on thine V 
Can theimage of life have the glow. 
The motion of life itself? 

'• Yourselves and j^our fellows ye know 

not ; and me. 
The mateless. the one, will ye know ? 
AA^'ill ye scan me, and read me, and tell 
Of the thoughts that ferment in my 

breast. 
My longing, my sadness, mj" joy ? 
Will ye claim for your great ones the 

gift 
To have renderVl the gleam of my skies. 
To have echoed the moan of my seas, 
Utter'd tlie voice of my hills ? 
When your great ones depart, will ye 

say : 
All things have suffered a loss. 
Nature is hid in their grave ? 

" Race after race, man after m.an. 
Have thought that my secret was theirs. 
Have dream'd that I lived but for them. 



ARNOLD 



721 



Tliat they were my glory and joy. 

— Tliey are dust, they are changed, they 

are gone ! 
I remain." 1852. 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
What I am, and what I oiiglit to be, 
At tliis vessel's prow I stand, which bears 

me 
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 
O'er the sea and to tlie stars I send : 
"Ye wiio from my childhood up have 

calm'd me. 
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 

" Ah, once more," I cried, " j'e stars, ye 

waters, 
On my heart j'onr miglity charm renew ; 
Still, still let me. as I gaze upon you, 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! '" 

From the iiitense, clear, star-sown vault 
of heaven, 

Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 

In the rustling night-air came tlie an- 
swer : [they. 

' ' Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as 

"Unaflrighted by the silence round 

them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see, 
Tliese demand not that the things witli- 

out them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

" And with joy the stars perform their 

shining. 
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll : 
For self-poised they live, nor pine with 

noting 
All tlie fever of some differing soul. 

" Bounded by themselves, andunregard- 

ful 
In what state God's other works may be. 
In tlieir own tasks all their powers 

pouring. 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice ! long since, severely 

clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I 
hear : [he, 

" Resolve to be thyself ; and know that 
Who finds himself, loses his misery !" 

1853. 
46 



MORALITY 

We cannot kindle when we will 

The fire which in the heart resides ; 

The spirit bloweth and is still. 

In mystery our soul abides. 

But tasks in houi's of insight will'd 
Can be through hours of gloom fulfiU'd. 

Witli aching hands and bleeding feet '\ 

We dig and iieap, lay stone on stone : \ 

We bear the burden and the heat 1 

Of the long dav, and wish 't were done. j 

Not till the hours of light return, / 

All we have built do we discern. / 

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
When thou doSt bask in Nature's eye, 
Ask, hovv sJie view'd thy self-control, 
Thy struggling, task'd morality — 
Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, 
Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 

And she, whose censure thou dost dread, 
Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 
See, on her face a glow is spread, 
A strong emotion on her cheek ! 

"Ah. child!" she cries, "that strife 
divine, 

Whence was it, for it is not mine ? 

" There is no effort on my brow — 
I do not strive. I do not weep ; 
I rush with tiie swift spiieres and glow 
In jov, and when I will, I sleej). 

Yet that severe, that earnest air. 

I saw, I felt it once — but where? 

" I knew not yet the gauge of time, 

Nor wore the manacles of space ; 

I felt it in some other clime, 

I saw it in some other place. 
'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 
And lav upon the bivast of God." 

1852. 

A SUMMER NIGHT 

In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street. 
How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 
Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, 
Silent and white, unopening down. 
Repellant as the world : — but see, 
A break between the housetops shows 
The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading 

dim 
Into the dewy dark obscurity 
Down at the far horizon's rim. 
Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 



722 



BRITISH POETS 



And to luy mind the thought 

Is on a, sudden bronght 

Of a past night, and a far different scene. 

Headlands stood out into the moonlit 

deep 
As clearly as at noon ; 
The spring-tide's brimming flow 
Heaved dazzlingly between ; 

Houses, with long white sweep, 

Girdled the glistening bay ; 

Behind, throiigli the soft air, 

The blue liaze-cradled mountains spread 

away, 
Tiie night was far more fair — 
But tlie same restless pacings to and fro, 
And the same vainly throbbing heart 

was there. 
And the same bright, calm moon. 

And the calm moonlight seems to say : 

Hast thou then still the old iin'quiet hreast. 

Which neither deadens into rest, 

Nor ever feels the fiery glow 

That whirls the spirit from itself aicay, 

But fluctuates to and fro. 

Never by passion quite possessed 

And never quite benumb'd by the world's 

sway ? — 
And I, I know not if to pray 
Still to be what I am, or yield and be 
Like all the other men I see. 

For most men in a brazen prison live, 

Where, in the sun's hot eye. 

With heads bent o'er their toil, they 

languidly 
Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork 

give. 
Dreaming of nought beyond their prison 

wall. 
And as, year after year. 
Fresh products of their barren labor fall 
From their tired hands, and rest 
Never yet comes more near, 
Gloom settles slowly down over their 

breast ; 
And wJiile they try to stem 
The waves of mournful thought by 

which they are pressed. 
Death in their prison reaches them, 
Unfreed, having seen nothing, still un- 

blest. 

And the rest, a few. 
Escape their prison and depart 
On the wide ocean of life anew. 
There the freed prisoner, where'er his 
heart 



Listeth, will .sail ; 

Nor doth he know how there prevail, 

Despotic on that sea. 

Trade- winds which cross it from eternitj'. 

Awhile lie liolds some false way, unde- 

barr'd 
By thwarting signs, and braves 
The freshening wind and blackening 

waves 
And then the tempest strikes him ; and 

between 
The lightning-bursts is seen 
Only a driving wreck. 
And the pale master on his spar-strewn 

deck 
With anguish'd face and flj'^ing hair 
Grasping the rudder hard. 
Still bent to make some port he knows 

not where, 
Still standing for some false, impossible 

shore. 
And sterner comes the roar 
Of sea and wind, and through the deep- 
ening gloom 
Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman 

loom. 
And he too disappears, and comes no 

moi"e. 

Is there no life, but these alone ? 
Madman or slave, must man be one ? 

Plainness and clearness without siiadow 

of stain ! 
Clearness divine ! 
Ye heavens, whose pm"e dark regions 

have no sign 
Of languor, though so calm, and, though 

so great. 
Are yet untroubled and unpassionate : 
Who, though so noble, share in the 

world's toil. 
And, though so task'd, keep free from 

dust and soil ! 
I will not sa}' that 5'our mild deeps retain 
A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 
Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd 

in vain — 
But I will rather say that you remain 
A world above man's head, to let him 

see 
How boundless might his soul's horizons 

be. 
How vast, yet of what clear trans- 
parency ! 
How it were good to abide there, and 

breathe free ; 
How fair a lot to fill 
Is left to each man still ! 1852. 



I 



ARNOLD 



723 



THE BURIED LIFE 

Light flows our war of mocking words, 

and yet, 
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! 
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 
Yes, 3'es, we know that we can jest. 
We know, we know that we can smile ! 
But tliere's a something- in this breast, 
To which thy light words bring no rest. 
And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 
Give me thy liand, and iiusl\ awliile, 
And turn those limpid eyes on mine. 
And let me read there, love ! thy inmost 

soul. 

Alas ! is even love too weak 
To unlock the lieart, and let it speak ? 
Are even lovei's powerless to reveal 
To one another what indeed they feel ? 
I knew the mass of men conceal'd 
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 
They would by. other men be met 
With blank indifference, or with blame 

reproved ; 
I knew they lived and moved 
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 
Of men, and alien to themselves — and 

j^et 
The same heart beats in every human 

breast ! 

But we, my love ! — doth a like spell be- 
numb 

Our hearts, our voices ? — must we too be 
dumb ■? 

Ah ! well for us, if even we. 
Even for a moment, can get free 
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd ; 
For that which seals them hath been 
deep-ordain'd ! 

Fate, which foresaw 
How frivolovis a baby man would be — 
By wliat distractions he would be pos- 
sess' d. 
How he would pour himself in every 

strife. 
And well-nigh change his own identity — 
That it miglit keei) from his capricious 

play 
His genuine self, and force him to obej^ 
Even in his own despite liis being's law. 
Bade through the deep reces.ses of our 

breast 
Tlie unregarded river of our life 
Pursue witli indiscernible flow its way ; 
And tliat we should not see 
The bm-ied stream, and seem to be 



Eddying at large in blind uncertainty. 
Though driving on witli it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded 

streets. 
But often, in the din of strife, 
There rises an unspeakable desire 
After the knowledge of our buried life ; 
A thirst to spend our fire and restless 

force 
In tracking out our true, original 

course ; 
A longing to inquire 
Into tlie mystery of this heart which 

beats 
So wild, so deep in us — to know 
Whence our lives come and where they 

go- 
And many a man in his own breast then 

delves. 
But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. 
And we have been on many thousand 

lines, 
And we have sliown, on each, spirit and 

power ; 
But hardly have we, for one little hour. 
Been on our own line, have we been 

ourselves — 
Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
Tlie nameless feelings that course 

through our breast. 
But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not true ! 
And then we will no more be rack'd 
With inward striving, and demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefying power ; 
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call ! 
Yet still, from time to time, vague and 

forlorn, 
From the soul's subterranean depth up- 

boi'ne 
As from an infinitely distant land. 
Come airs, and floating echoes, and con- 
vey 
A melancholy into all our day. 

Only — but this is rare — 

Wlien a beloved hand is laid in ours, 

Wlien, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours. 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafen'd ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd — 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our 

breast. 
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 



724 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlie eye sinks inward, and the heart lies 

plain, 
And what we mean, we say, and what 

we would, we know. 
A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
And hears its winding murmui- ; and he 

sees 
The meadows where it glides, the sun, 

the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
W.lierein he dotli for ever chase 
Tliat ll5'ing and elusive shadow, rest. 
An air of coolness plays upon his face. 
And an unwonted calm pervades liis 

breast. 
And then he tliinks he knows 
The hills wliere liis life rose, 
And the sea where it goes. 1852. 

LINES 

WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 

In this lone, open glade I lie. 
Screen'd by deep bouglison either hand ; 
And at its end, to stay the eye, 
Tliose black-crown'd, red-boled pine- 
trees stand ! 

Birds here make song, eacli bird has his, 
Across the girdling city's hum. 
How green under the boughs it is ! 
How thick the tremulous slieep-cries 
come ! 

Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
To take his nurse his broken toy ; 
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
Deep in her unknown da3''s employ. 

Here at my feet what wonders pass. 
What endless, active life is here ! 
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass I 
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod 
Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd 

out. 
And, eased of basket and of rod. 
Counts liis day's spoil, the spotted trout. 

In the huge world, -which roars hard by, 

Be others happy if they can ! 

But in my helpless cradle I 

Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 

I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 
Tliink often, as I hear tliem rave. 
That peace has left the upper world 
And now keeps only in the grave. 



Yet here is peace for ever new I 
Wlien I who watch them am away. 
Still all things in this glade go through 
The ciianges of tlieir quiet day. 

Then to their happy rest they pass! 
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed. 
The night conies down upon the grass. 
The ciiild sleeps warmly in his bed. 

Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
To feel, amid the city's jar. 
That tliere abides a peace of thine, 
Man did not make, and cannot mar. 

The will to neither strive nor cry, 
Tlie power to feel with others give ! 
Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
Before I have begun to live. 1852. 

THE FUTURE 

A wanderer is man from his birth. 
He was born in a ship 
On tiie breast of the river of Time ; 
Brimming with wonder and joy 
He spreads out his arms to tlie light. 
Rivets his gaze on the banks of tlie 
stream. 

As what he sees is, so have his thouglits 

been. 
Whetlier he wakes 
Where the snowy mountainous pass. 
Echoing the screams of the eagles. 
Hems in its gorges the bed 
Of the new-born clear-flowing stream ; 
Whetlier he first sees light 
Where the river in gleaming rings 
Sluggishl}' winds through tiie plain ; 
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea— 
As is the world on the banks. 
So is the mind of the man. 

Vainly does each, as he glides. 
Fable and dream 

Of the lands which the river of Time 
Had left ere he woke on its breast. 
Or shall reach when his eyes have been 

closed. 
Only the tract where he sails 
He wots of : only the thoughts. 
Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 

Who can see the green earth any more 
As she was by the sources of Time ? 
Who imagines her fields as they lay 
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 
AVho thinks as they tliought. [breast. 
The tribes who then roain'd on her 
Her vigorous, primitive sons ? 



ARNOLD 



725 



What girl 

Now reads in her bosom as clear 

As Rebekah read, when she sate 

At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 

Who guards in her breast 

As deep, as pellucid a spring 

Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 

What bard, 
At the height of his vision, can deem 
Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
Witli a plainness as near, 
As flashing as Moses felt 
When he lay in the night by his flock 
On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
Can rise and obey 
The beck of the Spirit like him ? 

This tract whicli the river of Time 
Now flows through with us, is the plain. 
Gone is the calm of its earlier shoi'e. 
Border'd by cities and hoarse 
With a thousand cries is its stream. 
And we on its breast, our minds 
Are confused as the cries which we hear, 
Clianging and shot as the sights which 
we see. 

And we say that repose has fled 

For ever the course of the river of Time. 

Tliat cities will crowd to its edge 

In a blacker, incessanter line ; 

Tliat the din will be more on its banks, 

Denser the trade on its stream, 

Flatter the plain wliere it flows, 

Fiercer the sun overhead. 

Tliat never will tliose on its breast 

See an ennobling sight, 

Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 

But \\ hat was before us we know not, 
And we know not what shall succeed. 

Haply, tlie river of Time — 

As it grows, as the towns on its marge 

Fling their wavering lights 

On a wider, statelier stream — 

May acquire, if not the calm 

Of its early mountainous shore, 

Yet a solemn peace of its own. 

And the width of the waters, the hush 
Of the gray expanse where he floats. 
Freshening its current and spotted with 

foam 
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 
Peace to the soul of the man on its 

Ijreast — 
As the pale waste widens around him. 
As the laanks fade dimmer away, 



As the stars come out, and the night- 
wind 
Brings up the stream 
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 

1852. 

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE 
AUTHOR OF "OBERMANN"! 

In front the awful Alpine track 
Crawls up its rocky stair ; 
The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, 
Close o'er it, in the air. 

' The author of Obermann, fitienne Pivert de 
Senaucour, has Httle celebrity in France, his own 
country ; and out of France he is almost un- 
known. But the profound inwardness, the aus- 
tere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermaun, 
the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, 
and the melancholy eloquence of many passages 
of it, have attracted and charmed some of the 
most remarkable spirits of this century, such as 
George Sand and Saiiite-Beuve, and will probably 
always find a certain number of spirits whom 
they touch and interest. 

Senanciiur was born in 1770. He was educated 
for the priesthood, and passed some time in the 
seminary of St. Sulpice ; broke away from the 
Seminary and from France itself, and passed 
some years in Switzerland, where he married ; 
returned to France in middle life, and followed 
thenceforward tlie career of a man of letters, but 
with hardly any fame or success. He died an old 
man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be 
placed these words only : Eteniite, deviens moii 
as He.' 

The influence of Rousseau, and certain afiini- 
ties with more famous and fortunate authors of 
his own day,— Chateaubriand and Madame de 
Stael,— are everywhere visible in Senancour. 
But though, like these eminent personages, he 
may be called a sentimental writer, and though 
Obermaun, a collection of letters from Switzer- 
land treating almost entirely of nature and of 
the human soul, may be called a work of senti- 
ment, Senancour has a gravity and severity 
which distinguish him from all other writers of 
the sentimental school. The world is with him in 
his solitude far less than it is with them ; of all 
writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the 
least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a 
value and power of its own, apart from these 
merits of its author. The stir of all the main 
forces, by which modern life is and has been im- 
pelled, lives in the letters of Obeniiann ; the dis- 
solving agencies of the eighteenth century, the 
fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first 
faint promise and dawn of that new world which 
our own time is but more fully bringing to light, 
—all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, 
there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that 
the impressivenessof this production can hardly 
be rated too high. 

Beside Oberniann there is one other of Se- 
nancour's works which, for those spirits who 
feel his attraction, is very interesting ; its title 
is, Libres Meditations d'uu Solifarre Inconnu. 
(Arnold's note. The passage of Geoi-ge Sand 
alluded to may be found in her Questions d'Art 
et de Litterafn're. Sainte-Beu ve has several times 
written of Senancour : especially in his Portraits 
Conteni)iorains. Vol. I, and in Chateaubriand et 
son Gruupe litteraire. Chap. 14.) 



726 



BRITISH POETS 



Behind are the abandon'd baths ^ 
Mute in their meadows lone ; 
The leaves are on the valley-paths, 
The mists are on the Rhone — 

Tlie white mists rolling like a sea ! 
I hear the torrents roar. 
— Yes. Obermann, all speaks of thee ; 
I feel thee near once more ! 

I turn thy leaves ! I feel their breath 
Once more upon me roll ; 
That air of languor, cold, and death, 
Which brooded o'er thy soul. 

Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, 
Condemn"d to cast about, 
All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, 
For comfort from without ! 

A fever in these pages burns 
Beneath the calm they feign ; 
A wounded human spirit turns, 
Here, on its bed of j)ain. 

Yes, though the virgin mountain-air 
Fresh through these pages blows ; 
Though to these leaves the glaciers spare 
The soul of their white snows ; 

Though here a mountain-murmur swells 
Of many a dark-bougli'd pine ; 
Though, as you read, you hear the bells 
Of the higli-pasturing kine — 

Yet, through the hum of torrent lone. 
And brooding mountain-bee. 
There sobs I know not what ground-tone 
Of human agony. 

Is it for this, because the sound 
Is fraught too deep with pain. 
That, Obermann ! the world around 
So little loves thy strain ? 

Some secrets may the poet tell, 
For the world loves new ways ; 
To tell too deep ones is not well — 
It knows not what he says. 

Yet, of the spirits who have reign'd 
In this our troubled day, 
I know but two, who have attain'd 
Save thee, to see their way. 



' The Baths of Leuk. This poem was con- 
ceived, and partly composed, in the valley going 
down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards 
the Rhone. (Arnold.) 



By England's lakes, in gray old age. 
His quiet home one keeps ; 
And one, the strong much-toiling sage, 
In German Weimar sleeps. 

But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
From lialf of human fate ; 
And Goetlies course few sons of men 
May think to emulate. 

For he pursued a lonely road, 
His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
Neither made man too much a God, 
Nor God too much a man. 

Strong was he, with a spirit free 
From mists, and sane, and clear; 
Cleai'er, how mucl> ! than ours — yet we 
Have a worse course to steer. 

For though his manhood bore the blast 
Of a tremendous time. 
Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd 
His tenderer youthful prime. 

But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours 
Of change, alarm, surprise — 
What shelter to grow ripe is ours ? 
What leisure to grosv wise ? 

Like children bathing on the shore, 
Buried a wave beneath, 
The second wave succeeds, before 
We have had time to breathe. 

Too fast we live, too much are tried, 

Too harass'd, to attain 

Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's 

wide 
And luminous view to gain. 

And then we turn, thou sadder sage, 
To thee ! we feel thy spell ! 
— The hopeless tangle of our age, 
Thou too hast scann'd it well ! 

Immoveable thou sittest, still 
As death, composed to bear ! 
Thj' head is clear, thy feeling chill, 
And ic\" thy despair. 

Yes, as the son of Thetis said, 
I hear thee saying now : 
Greater by far than thou are dead ; 
Strive not ! die also thou ! 

Ah ! two desires toss about 

The poet's feverish blood. 

One drives liini to the world without, 

And oJie to solitude. 



ARNOLD 



727 



The glow, he cries, the thrill of life, 
Where, tchere do these abound ? — 
Not in the world, not in the strife 
Of men, shall they be found. 

He who hath watch'd, not shared, the 

strife. 
Knows how the day hath gone. 
He only lives with the world's life, 
Who hath renounced his own. 

To thee we come, then ! Clouds areroU'd 
Where thou, O seer ! art set ; 
Thy realm of thought is drear and cold — 
The world is colder yet ! 

And thou hast pleasures, too, to share 
With those who come to thee — 
Balms floating on thy mountain-air, 
And healing sights to see. 

How often, where the slopes are green 
On Jaman, hast tliou sate 
By some high chalet-door, and seen 
The summer-day grow late ; 

And darkness steal o'er the wet grass 

With the pale crocus starr'd. 

And reacla that glimmering sheet of 

glass 
Beneath the piny sward, 

Lake Leman's waters, far below ! 
And watch'd the rosy light 
Fade from the distant peaks of snow ; 
And on the air of night 

Heard accents of the eternal tongue 
Through the pine branches play — 
Listen'd, and felt thyself gi'ow young ! 
Listeu'd and wept Away ! 

Away the dreams that but deceive 
And thou, sad guide, adieu ! 
I go, fate drives tne ; but I leave 
Half of my life with you. 

We, in some unknown Power's employ, 
Move on a rigorous line ; 
Can neither, when we will, enjoy. 
Nor, when we will, resign. 

I in the world must live ; but thou, 
Thou melancholy shade ! 
Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, 
Condemn me, nor upbraid. 

For thou art gone away from earth, 
And place with those dost claim. 
The Children of the Second Birth, 
Whom the world could not tame ; 



And with that small, transfigured band. 
Whom many a different way 
Conducted to their common land. 
Thou learn'st to think as they. 

Christian and pagan, king and slave, 
Soldier and anchorite. 
Distinctions we esteem so grave , 
Are nothing in their sight. 

They do not ask, who pined unseen, 
Wlio was on action hurrd. 
Whose one bond is, that all have been 
Unsi)otted by the world. 

There without anger thou wilt see 
Him who obeys thy spell 
No more, so he but rest, like thee, 
Unsoil'd ! — and so, farewell. 

Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near 
That much-loved inland sea, 
The ripples of whose blue waves cheer 
Vevey and Meillerie : 

And in that gracious region bland, 
Wliere with clear-rustling wave 
The scented pines of Switzerland 
Stand dark round thy green grave, 

Between the dusty vineyard-walls 
Issuing on that green place 
The early peasant still recalls 
The pensive stranger's face, 

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date 
Ere he plods on again ; — 
Or whether, by maligner fate. 
Among the swarms of men. 

Where between granite terraces 
The blue Seine rolls her wave, 
The Capital of Pleasure sees 
The hardly-heard-of grave ; — 

Farewell ! Under the sky we part. 
In the stern Alpine dell. 
O unstrung will ! O broken heart ! 
A last, a last farewell ! 1852. 

REQUIESCAT 

Strew on her roses, roses, 

And never a spray of yew ! 
In quiet she reposes ; 

Ah, would that I did too ! 

Her mirth the world required ; 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
But her heart was tiied. tired, 

And now they let her be. 



728 



BRITISH POETS 



t\ 



Her life was turning, turning, 

In mazes of heat and sound. 
But for peace her soul was yearning, 

And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabin'd, ample spirit, 
It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. 

To-night it doth inherit 
The vasty liall of death. 1853. 

SOHRAB AND RUStUM 

And the first gray of morning fill'd the 

east. 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
But all the Tartar camp along tJie stream 
Was hush'd, and still the men were 

plunged in sleep ; 
.Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all niglit long 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the gray dawn stole into his 

tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his 

sword, 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left 

liis tent; 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's 

tent. 
Througli the black Tartar teiits he 

pass"d, which stood 
Clustering like beehives on the low flat 

strand 
Of Oxus, where, the summer-floods o'er- 

flovv 
When the sun melts the snows in high 

Pamere ; 
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er 

that low strand. 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink — the spot where 

first a boat, 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes 

the land. 
Tlie men of former times liad crown'd 

the top 
With a clay fort ; but that was fall'n, 

and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa"s tent , 
A dome of laths, and o"er it felts were 

spread. 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and 

stood 
Upon the thick piled carpets in tlie tent. 
And found the old man sleeping on his 

bed 
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his 

arms, [step 

And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the 



Was duU'd ; for he slept light, an old 

man's sleep ; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and 

said : — 
" Who art thouV for it is not yet clear 

dawn. 
Speak ! is there news, or any night 

alarm ? " 
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and 

said : — 
" Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleei) ; but 1 sleep not ; all night long 

Hie 
Tossing iind wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
In Samarcand, before the army mart^h'd; 
And I will tell thee what my heart 

desires.' 
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan 

first 
I came among the Tartars and bore arms. 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and 

shown. 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know'st, that wlnle I still 

bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns tlirough 

the world. 
And beat the Persians back on every 

field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
Rustum, my father ; wholhoped sliould 

greet, 
Should one day greet, upon some well- 
fought field. 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me 

wliat I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
Will challenge forth Uie bravest Per- 
sian lords 
To meet me, man to man ; if I pievail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no 

kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common figlit. 
Where host meets liost. and many names 

are sunk ; 
But of a single combat fame speaks 

clear." 
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the 

hand 
Of the young man in, his, and sigh'd, and 

^aid : — 
'• O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is 

thine ! 



ARNOLD 



729 



Canst thou not rest among tlie Tartar 

chiefs. 
And share tlie battle s common chance 

with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever 

first, 
In single fight incurring single risk. 
To find a father tliou hast never seen ? 
Tliat were far best, my son, to stay witli 

us 
Unmurnuiring ; in our tents, wliile it is 

war. 
And when "t is truce, then in Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 
To seek out Rustum — seek him not 

through fight ! 
Seek him in peace, and carry to Ids 

arms, 
() Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
But far hence seek him, for he is not 

here. 
For now it is not as when I was young. 
When Rustum was in front of every 

fray ; 
But now he keeps apart, and sits at 

lnome. 
In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 
Whether tliat his own mighty strengtii 

at last 
Feels the abliorr'd approaches of old age. 
Or in some quarrel with tlie Persian 

King. 
Tliere go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my 

heart forebodes 
Danger or death awaits thee on this 

field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, 

thougli lost 
To us : fain therefore send thee hence, 

in peace 
To seek tliy father, not seek single 

fights 
In vain ; — but who can keep tlie lion's 

cub 
From ravening, and who govern Rus- 

tum's souV 
Go, I will grant thee what thy heart 

desires.*' 
So said he, and dropp'd Solirab's hand, 

and left 
His bed, and tlie warm rugs whereon he 

lay ; 
And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen 

coat 
He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his 

feet. 
And threw a white cloak round him. and 

he took 



In his right hand a rulers staff, no 

sword ; 
And on his liead he set his sheep-skin 

cap, 
Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara- 

Kul ; 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and 

caird 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
The sun by this had risen, and clear'd 

the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering 

sands. 
And from their tents the Tartar horse- 
men filed 
Into tlie open plain ; so Haman bade — 
Hainan, who next to Peraii-Wisa ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty 

prime. 
From their black tents, long files of 

horse, they stream'd : 
As when .some gray November morn the 

files. 
In marching order spread, of long-neck'd 

cranes 
Stream over Casbiii and the southern 

slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. 
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, south- 
ward bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board — so they 

stream'd. 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's 

guard, 
First, with black sheep-skin caps and 

with long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds ; who from Bok- 

liara come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of 

mares. 
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of 

the south, 
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore. 
And those from Attruck and the Cas- 
pian sands ; 
Light men and on light steeds, who only 

drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their 

wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, 

who came 
From far, and a more doubtful service 

own'd ; 
The Tartars of P'erghana, from the 

banks 
Of tiie Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And clo.se-set skull-caps ; and those 

wilder hordes [ern waste. 

Who roam o'er Kipchak and the north- 



73° 



BRITISH POETS 



Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes 

who stray 
Nearest the Pole, and wauderiug Kir- 

ghizzes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pa- 
mere ; 
These all filed out from camp into the 

plain. 
And on the other side the Persians 

form'd ; — 
First a light cloud of hoi'se, Tartars they 

seem'd, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and 

foot, 
Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd 

steel. 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the 

front, 
And with his staff kept back the fore- 
most ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, 

saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back. 
He took his spear, and to the front he 

came. 
And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them 

where tliey stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon tlie sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and 

said : 
' ' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, 

hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to- 
day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian 

lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to 

man." 
As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled 

ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for 

joy- 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa 

said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squad- 
rons ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom 

thej'^ loved. 
But as a troop of pedlars, from Ca- 

bool. 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
That vast sky neigliboring mountain of 

milk snow ; 
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, 

they pass [tlie snow. 

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on 



Clioked by the air, and scarce can they 

themselves 
Slake their parch'd throats with sugar "d 

mulberries — 
In single file they move, and stop their 

breath, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'er- 

hanging snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath 

with fear. 
And to Ferood his brother chiefs came 

up 
To counsel : Gudurz and Zoarrah came. 
And Feraburz, wlio ruled the Persian 

host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King ; 
These came and counsell'd, and then 

Gudurz said : — 
" Ferood, shame bids us tak^ their 

challenge up. 
Yet champion have we none to match 

this youth. 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 

heart; 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he 

sits 
And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents 

apart. 
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young 

man's name. 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their 

challenge up." 
So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth 

and cried : — 
" Old man. be it agreed as thou hast 

said ! 
Let Solirab arm, and we w-ill find a 

man." 
He spake : and Peran-Wisa turn'd, 

and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to 

his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gud- 
urz ran, 
And cross'd the camp which lay behind, 

and reach'd. 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's 

tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glitter- 
ing gay, 
Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the 

midst 
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd 

around. 
And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and 

found [but still 

Ruslum ; his morning meal was done, 



ARNOLD 



731 



The table stood before him, charged 

with food — 
A side of roasted slieep, and cakes of 

bread. 
And dark green melons ; and there Rus- 

tuni sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 
And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came 

and stood 
Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him 

stand, 
And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd 

the bird. 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, 

and said : — 
"Welcome! these eyes could see no 

better siglit. 
What news? but sit down first, and eat 

and drink." 
But Gudurz stood in the tent door, 

and said :— 
" Not now ! a time will come to eat and 

drink. 
But not to-day ; to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at 

gaze ; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge 

brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian 

lords 
To fight tlieir champion — and thou 

kuow'st his name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is 

hid. 
O Rustum, like thy might is this young 

man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 

heart ; 
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are 

old. 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to 

thee. 
Come down and help vis, Rustum, or we 

lose ! " 
He spoke ; but Rustum answer 'd with 

a smile : — 
Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
Am older : if the young are weak, the 

King 
Errs strangely : for the King, for Kai 

Khosroo. 
Himself is young, and honors younger 

men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their 

graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the 

young— 
Tlie young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, 

not I. 



For what care L though all speak 

Sohrab's fame V 
For would that I myself had such a son. 
And not that one slight helpless girl I 

have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans 

vex. 
And clip his borders short, and drive 

his herds. 
And he has none to guard his weak old 

age. 
There would I go, and hang my armor 

up. 
And with my great name fence that 

weak old man. 
And spend the goodly treasures I have 

got, 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's 

fame. 
And leave to death the hosts of thank- 
less kings, 
And with these slaughterous hands draw 

sword no more." 
He spoke and smiled ; and Gudurz 

made reply : — 
•' What then, O Rustum, will men 

say to this. 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, 

and seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most 

he seeks, 
Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men 

should say : 
Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his 

fame. 
And shuns to peril it ivith younger men.''' 
And greatl\" moved, then Rustum 

made reply : — 
"0 Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say 

such words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to 

say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or 

famed, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me 'i 
Are not they mortal, am not I myself ? 
But who for men of nought would do 

great deeds ? 
Come, thou shalt see how Rustvim 

hoards his fame ! 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain 

arms ; 
Let not men say of Rustum, he was 

niatch'd 
In single figiit with any mortal man." 
He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudiu'z 

turn'd, and ran 



732 



BRITISH POETS 



Back quickly through the camp iu fear 

and joy- 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustuiu 

came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and 

call'd 
His followers in, and bade them bring 

liis arms, 
And clad himself in steel ; the arms he 

chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no 

device, 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
And. from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair 

plume. 
So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, 

his horse. 
Follow'd him like a faithful hound at 

heel — 
Ruksh, whose renown was noised 

through all the earth, 
Tlie horse, whom Rustum on a foray 

once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him 

home. 
And rear'd him ; a bi'ight bay, witli 

lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd 

green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground 

were vvork"d 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which 

hunters know. 
So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and 

cross'd 
The camp, and to the Persian host ap- 
pear 'd. 
And all tlie Persians knew him, and 

with shouts 
Hail'd ; but the Tartars knew not who 

he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of Jiis ])ale wife who waits and weeps 

on shore, 
By sandy Bnhrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at 

night. 
Having made up his tale of precious 

pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum 

came. 
And Rustum to the Persian front ad- 
vanced. 
And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and 

came. 
And as afield the reapers cut a swath 



Down through the middle of a rich 

man's corn. 
And on each side are squares of stand- 
ing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble, short and 

bare — 
So on each side were squares of men, 

with spears 
Bristling, and in the midst, the open 

sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and 

cast 
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and 

saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he 

came. 
As some rich woman, on a winter's 

morn. 
Eyes through her silken curtains the 

poor drudge 
Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes 

her fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn. 
When the frost flowers the whiten 'd 

window-panes— 
And wonders how she lives, and what 

the thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rus- 
tum eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who 

from afar 
C'ame seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs ; long he 

perused 
His spirited air, and wonder'd who he 

was. 
For very young he seem'd, tenderly 

rear'd ; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, 

and straigjit. 
Which in a queen's secluded garden 

throvvs 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit 

turf. 
By midniglit, to a bubbling fountain's 

sound — 
So slender Sohrab seem'd^ so softly 

rear'd. 
And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming ; and he stood. 
And beckon'd to him with his hand, and 

said : — 
' ' O thou young man , the air of Heaven 

is soft. 
And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave 

is cold ! 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead 

grave. 
Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron. 



ARNOLD 



733 



And tried ; and I have stood on manj' a 

field 
Of Vjlood, and I have fought with many 

a foe — 
Never was that field lost, or that foe 

saved. 
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on 

death ? 
Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and 

come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
Tliere are no youtlis in Iran brave as 

thou." 
80 lie spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his 

voice, 
Tlie mighty voiceof Rustnm, and he saw 
His giant figui'e planted on the sand, 
Sole, like some single tower, which a 

chief 
Hath builded on the waste in former 

years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that 

head, 
Streak'd witli its first graj^ hairs ; — hope 

filled his soul, 
And lie ran forward and embraced his 

knees. 
And clasp'd his liand within his own, 'and 

s;iid : — 
'• O, by tliy father's hea<l ! by thine 

own soul ! 
Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou 

not he ? " 
But Rustum eyed askance the kneel- 
ing youth. 
And turn'd away, and spake to his own 

soul : — 
'• Ah me. I muse what this young fox 

may mean ! 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar 

boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
And hide it not, but saj^ : Rustum is here ! 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our 

foes. 
But he will find some pretext not to figlit, 
And praise my fame, and proffer court- 
eous gifts 
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry : 
' I challenged once, when the two 

armies canip'd 
Beside the Oxus. all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
Shrank, only Rustum dared ; tlien he 

and I [away.' 

Changed gifts, and went on equal terms 



So will he speak, perliaps, while men 

applaud ; 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed 

through me.'" 
And then he turn'd, and sternly spake 

aloud : — 
" Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly 

question thus 
Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou 

hast call'd 
By challenge forth ; make good thy 

vaunt, or jield ! 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst 

fight? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face 

and flee ! 
For well I know, that did great Rustum 

stand 
Before thy face this day, and were re- 

veal'd. 
There would be then no talk of fighting 

more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt 

and yield, 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, 

till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxvis with his summer- 
floods, 
Oxus in summer wash them all away." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab answer'd, on 

his feet : — 
"Art thou .so fierce? Thou wilt not 

fright me so ! 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this tliou hast said well, did Rus- 
tum stand 
Here on this field, there were no figlit- 

ing then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand 

here. 
Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread 

than I, 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am 

young— 
But yet success sways with the breatli 

of Heaven. 
And tliough thou thinkest that thou 

knowest sure [know. 

Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea. 
Poised on the top of a liuge wave of fate. 
Which hangs uncertain to wliich side to 

fall. 
And whether it will heave us up to land. 
Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of 

death, 



734 



BRITISH POETS 



We know not, and no search will make 

us know ; 
Onh' the event will teach us in its hour." 
He spoke, and Rustuin answer'd not, 

but hui I'd 
His spear ; down froni the shoulder, 

down it came, 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk. 
That long has tower'd in the airy clouds, 
Drops like a plummet ; Sohrab saw it 

come. 
And sprang- aside, quick as a flash ; the 

spea r 
Hiss'd. and went quivering down into the 

sand, 
Which it sent flying wide ; — then Soli- 

rab threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield ; 

sharp rang. 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd 

tlae spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none 

but he 
Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, 

and iiuge. 
Still rough — like those which men in 

treeless plains 
To build them boats fish from the flooded 

rivers, 
H3'phasis or Hj'daspes, when, higli up 
Bj^ their dark springs, the wind in 

winter-time 
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
And strewn the channels with torn 

boughs — so huge 
The club which Rustuin lifted now, and 

struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang 

aside. 
Lithe as tiie glancing snake, and the 

club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from 

Rustum's hand. 
And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and 

fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers 

clutch'd the sand : 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed 

his sword. 
And pierced the mighty Rustum wliile 

he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked 

with sand ; 
But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared 

his sword. 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, 

and said : — 
" Them strik'st too hard ! that club of 

thine will float 



Upon the summer-floods, and not un- 
bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth 

am I ; 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my 

soul. 
Thou sav'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it 

so! 
Wlio art thou then, that canst so touch 

mj^ soul? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 
Have waded foremost in their bloodj' 

waves. 
And heard their hollow roar of dying 

men ; 
But never was my heart thus touch'd 

before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings 

of the heart ? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to 

Heaven ! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry 

spears. 
And make a truce, and sit upon this 

sand, 
And pledge each other in red wine, like 

friends, 
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's 

deeds. 
There are enough foes in tiie Persian 

host. 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel 

no pang: 
Cliam]>ions enoiigh Afrasiab has. whom 

thou 
Mayst fight ; fight them, when they con- 
front thy spear ! 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee 

and me ! " 
He ceased, but while he spake, Rus- 
tum had risen. 
And stood erect, trembling witli rage ; 

his club 
He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear. 
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd 

right-hand 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that 

autumn-star. 
The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd 
His stately crest, and dimni'd his glit- 
tering arms. 
His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and 

twice his voice 
Was clioked with rage ; at last these 

words broke way : — 
" Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with 

thy hands ! 
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet 

words ! 



ARNOLD 



735 



Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no 

more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art 

wont to dance ; 
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and witli me, who make no 

pia}' 
Of war ; I fight it out. and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, 

and wine ! 
Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
And cunning ! all the pity Iliad is gone ; 
Because thou liast shan\ed me before 

both the hosts 
With th}^ light skipping tricks, and th}' 

girl's wiles." 
He spoke, and Solirab kindled at his 

taunts, 
And he too drew his sword ; at once 

they rush'd 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the 

clouds. 
One from the east, one from the west ; 

their sliields 
Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as tluit the sinewy wood- 
cutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn. 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such 

blows 
Rustuni and Sohrabon each other hail'd. 
And you would say tliat sun and stars 

took part 
In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd 

the sun 
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind 

rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept 

the plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the 

pair. 
In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and 

the}^ alone ; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either 

hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky 

was pure. 
And thesun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fouglit, with 

bloodshot eyes 
And laboring breath ; first Rustum 

struck the shield 
Whicli Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel- 
spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach 

the skin, 



And Rustum pluck'd it back with an- 
gry groan. 

Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus- 
tum's helm. 

Nor clove its steel quite through ; but 
all the crest 

He shore away, and that proud horse- 
hair plume. 

Never till now defiled, sank to the dust : 

And Rustuni bow'd his head ; but tlien 
tlie gloom 

Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in tlie 
air. 

And lightnings rent the cloud ; and 
Ruksh, the horse. 

Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful 
cry ;— 

No horse's cry was that, most like the 
roar 

Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 

Hath trail'd the hunter's javelin in liis 
side. 

And comes at night to die upon the 
sand. 

Tlie two hosts heard that cry, and 
quaked for fear, 

And Oxus curdled as it cross'd liis 
stream. 

But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not. but 
rush'd on, 

And struck again ; and again Rustum 
bow'd 

His head ; but this time all the blade, 
like glass. 

Sprang in a thousand shivers on the 
helm, 

And in the hand the hilt reraain'd alone. 

Then Rustum raised his head ; his dread- 
ful eyes 

Glared, and he shook on high his menac- 
ing spear. 

And shouted : Rustum ! — Sohrab heard 
that sliout. 

And shrank amazed ; back he recoil'd 
one step. 

And scann'd with blinking eyes the ad- 
vancing form ; 

And then lie stood bewilder'd ; and he 
dropp'd 

His covering shield, and the spear 
pierced his side. 

He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to 
the ground. 

And tiien the gloom dispersed, and tiie 
wind fell. 

And the bright sun broke forth, and 
melted all 

The cloud ; and the two armies saw tlie 
pair — 



736 



BRITISH POETS 



Saw Riistum standing, safe upon his 

feet. 
And Sohiab, wounded, on the bloody 

sand. 
Then, with a bitter smile, Rustunt 

began : — 
" Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind 

to kill 
A Persian lord tliis day, and strip his 

corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else tliat the great Rustum would 

come down 
Himself to liglit, and that thy wiles 

would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then that all the Tartar host would 

praise 
Thy courage or tliy craft, and spread 

tliy fame. 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown 

man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father 

old." 
And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab re- 
plied : — 
"Unknown thou art; yet th}- fierce 

vaiuit is vain. 
Tiiou dost not slay me, proud and boast- 
ful man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial 

heart. 
For were I matciiM witli ten such men 

as thee. 
And I wei"e that which till to-day I w;us. 
They should be lying liere, I standing 

there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my 

arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in 

thee. 
Which troubles all my heart, and made 

my shield 
Fall ; and thj' spear transfix'd an un- 

arm'd foe. 
And now thou boastest. and insult'st my 

fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble 

to hear 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my 

death ! 
M}' father, whom I seek through all the 

world. 
He shall avenge my death, and punish 

thee ! " 
As when some hunter in the spring 

hath found 



A breeding eagle sitting on iier ne.sl, 

Upon the craggy isle of a liill-lake. 

And pierced lier with an arrow as she 
rose. 

And followed her to find her where she 
fell 

Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging 
back 

From hunting, and a great way off" de- 
scries 

His huddling young left sole ; at that, 
he checks 

His pinion, and with short uneasy 
sweeps 

Circles above his eyry. with loud screams 

Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but 
she 

Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 

In some far stony gorge ovit of his ken, 

A heap of fluttering feathers — never 
more 

Shall the lake glass her, flying over it : 

Never the black and dripping preci])ices 

Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows 
his loss. 

So Rustum knew not his own loss, but 
stood 

Over his dying son, and knew him not. 
But, with a cold incredulous voice, he 
said : — 

"What prate is this of fathers and re- 
venge ? 

The mighty Rustuna never ha'l a son." 
And. with a failing voice, Sohrul) re- 
plied : — 

" Ah }'es, he had ! and that lost son am I. 

Surely the news will one day reach his 
ear. 

Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tar- 
ries long, 

Somewhere, I know not where, but far 
from here 

And pierce him like a stab, and make 
him leap 

To arms, and cry for vengeance upon 
tliee. 

Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only 

80T1 ! 

What will tliat grief, what will that 

vengeance be ? 
Oh, could I live, till I tlint grief had 

seen ! 
Yet him I pit}^ not so much, but her. 
My motlier, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With tiiat old king, her father, who 

grows gray 
With age, and rules over the valiant 

Koords. 



ARNOLD 



737 



Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Solirabretm-ning from the Tartar cam]), 
With spoils and honor, when the war is 

done. 
But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
{ From tribe to tribe, until it reach her 
' ear ; 

And tlien will that defenceless wonaan 

learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no 

more, 
But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 
He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept 

aloud. 
Thinking of her he left, and his own 

death. 
He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged 

in thouglit. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he call'd back 

names he knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the 

babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
So that sad mother sent him word, for 

fear 
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in 

arms 
And so he deem'd that either Sohrab 

took, 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's 

son ; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his 

fame, 
i So deem'd he : yet he listen'd, plunged 
■ in thought 

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to 

shore 
At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his 

eyes : 
For he remember'd his own early youth, 
And all its bounding rapture ; as, at 

dawn, 
Tlie sheplierd from his mountain-lodge 

descries 
A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 
Tin'ough many rolling clouds — so Rus- 
tum saw 
His youth ; saw Sobrab's mother, in her 

bloom ; 
And that old king, her father, who loved 

well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his 

fair child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they 

led. 

47 



They three, in that long-distant summer- 
time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and 

hunt 
And Iiound, and morn on those delight- 
ful hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth , 
Of age and looks to be his own dear 

son. 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
Like some rich hyacinth which by tlie 

scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut. 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its 

bed. 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple 

bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab 

laj'. 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, 

and said : — 
•' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might 

well have loved. 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false— tliou art not Rus- 
tum's son. 
For Rustum had no son ; one child he 

had — 
But one — a girl ; who with her mother 

now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams 

of us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, 

nor war." 
But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; 

for now 
The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew 

fierce, 
And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
And let the blood flow free, and so to 

die — 
But first he would convince his stubborn 

foe ; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he 

said : — 
"Man, who art thou who dost deny 

my words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men. 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far 

from mine. 
I tell tliee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
Tliat seal which Rustum to my mother 

gave, 
Tliat she might prick it on the babe she 

bore." 
He spoke ; and all the blood left Rus- 
tum's cheeks. 



738 



BRITISH POETS 



And his knees totter'd, and he smote his 

hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed 

hand. 
That tlie hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; 
And to his heart he press'd the other 

hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and 

said : — 
" Sohrab, that were a proof which 

could not lie ! 
If thou show this, then art thou Eus- 

tum's sou." 
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab 

loosed 
His belt, and near tlie shoulder bared 

his arm, 
And show'd a sign in faint vermilion 

points 
Prick'd ; as a cunning vs'orkman, in 

Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porce- 
lain vase. 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he 

paints. 
And all day long, and, when night 

comes, the lamp 
Liglits up liis studious forehead and thin 

hands — 
So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
On Sohrab's arm. the sign of Rustum's 

seal. 
It was tliat griffin, which of old rear'd 

Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left 

to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain- 
rocks ; 
Him that kind creature found, and 

rear'd, and loved — 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious 

sign. 
And Sohrab bared that image on his 

arm. 
And himself scann'd it long with mourn- 
ful eyes, 
And then he touch'd it with his hand 

and said : — 
' ' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the 

proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other 

man 's?" 
He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and 

gazed, and stood 
Speechless ; and then he utter'd one 

sharp cry : 
O bny — ihyfaiher I — and his voice choked 

there. [ej^es. 

And tlien a dark cloud jjass'd before his 



And his head swam, and he sank down 
to earth. 

But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay,' and 
cast 

His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his 
lips. 

And with fond faltering fingers stroked 
his cheeks, 

Trying to call him back to life ; and life 

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his 
eyes. 

And tliey stood wide with horror ; and 
lie seized 

In both his hands the dust which lay 
around. 

And threw it on his head, and smirch'd 
his hair, — 

His hair, and face, and beard, and glit- 
tering arms ; 

And strong convulsive groanings shook 
his breast, 

And his sobs choked him ; and he 
clutch'd his sword. 

To draw it, and for ever let life out. 

But Sohrab saw his thought, and held 
his hands. 

And with a soothing voice he spake, and 
said : — 
" Father, forbear ! for I but meet to- 
day 

The doom wliich at my birth was writ- 
ten down 

In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's un- 
conscious hand. 

Surely my heart cried out that it was 
thou. 

When first I saw thee ; and thy heart 
spoke too. 

I know it ! but fate trod those prompt- 
ings down 

Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 

The strife, and hurl'd m« on my father's 
spear. 

But let us speak no more of this ! I find 

My father ; let me feel tliat I have 
found ! 

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and 
take 

My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my 
cheeks. 

And wash them with thy tears, and say : 
My son .' 

Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my 
sands of life. 

And swift ; for like the lightning to this 
field 

I came, and like the wind I go away — 

Sudden, and swift, and like a passing 
wind. 



ARNOLD 



739 



But it was writ in Heaven that this 

slioukl be." 
So said he, and Jiis voice released the 

heart 
Of Rustuni, and liis tears broke forth ; 

lie cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept 

aloud, 
And kiss'd liim. And awe fell on both 

the hosts, 
Wlien they saw Rustuui's grief ; and 

Ruksh, the horse, 
Witli his head bowing to the ground 

and mane 
Sweeping tlie dust, came near, and in 

mute woe 
First to the one, then to the otlier moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their 

grief 
Might mean ; and from his dark, com- 
passionate eyes, 
The big warm tears roll'd dow^n, and 

caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, 

and said : — 
" Ruksh, now tliou grievest ; but, O 

Ruksh ; thy feet 
Should first liave rotted on their nimble 

joints. 
Or ere they brought thy master to this 

field ! "' 
But Solirab look'd upon tlie horse and 

said ; — 
"Is this, then. Ruksh? How often, in 

past days, 
.My mother told me of thee, thou brave 

steed. 
My terrible father's terrible horse ! and 

said, 
Tliat I should one day find thy lord and 

tliee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon tliy 

mane ! 
O Ruksli, thou art more fortunate tlian I; 
For thou hast gone where I shall ne.ver 

go, 
And snuff'd the breezes of my father's 

home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seis- 

tan. 
And seen the River of Helmund, and the 

Lake 
Of Zirrah : and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given 

thee food. 
Corn in a golden platter soak'd w-ith 

wine, 
And said ; O Ruksli ! hear Rnstiim uiellf 

—but I 



Have never known my grandsire's fur- 

row'd face, 
Nor seen his lofty liouse in Seistan, 
Nor slaked mj' thirst at the clear Hel- 
mund stream ; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and 

seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And tlie black Toorkmun tents ; and 

only drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorgliab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed 

tlieir sheep. 
The nortliern Sir ; and this great Oxus 

stream, 
The 3'ellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 
Then, witli a heavy groan, Rustuni be- 

wail'd: — 
" Oh, that its waves were flowing over 

me ! 
Oh. that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my 

head ! " 
But, with a gi'ave mild voice, Sohrab 

replied : — 
" Desire not that, my father! tliou must 

live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and 

live. 
As some are born to be obscured, and 

die. 
Do thou tiie deeds I die too young to do. 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thj' gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of 

men 
Which follow me ; I pray tliee, slay 

not these ! 
Let me entreat for them ; what Iiave 

they done ? 
Tliey follow'd me, my hope, my fame, 

my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in 

peace. 
But me thou must beai" hence, not send 

with them. 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for 

me, 
Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all 

thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in tliat lovely 

earth. 
And heap a stately mound above my 

bones. 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
That so the passing horseman on the 

waste 



740 



BRITISH POETS 



Ma3' see my tomb a great way off, and 

cry : 
Sohvah, the mighty Rustnm's son, lies 

there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance 

kill ! 
And I be not forgotten in my grave." 
And, with a mournful voice, Rustura 

replied : — 
" Fear not, as thou hast said, Sohrab, 

my son. 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, 
And quit the host, and bear tliee hence 

with me, 
And carry thee awaj^ to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for 

thee. 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my 

friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above tliy 

bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
And men shall not forget thee in thy 

grave. 
And I will spare thy host ; yea, let 

them go ! 
Let them all cross tlie Oxus back in 

peace ! 
What should I do witli slaying any 

more ? 
For would that all that I have ever 

slain 
Miglit be once more alive ; my bitterest 

foes, 
And they who were call'd champions in 

their time. 
And through whose death I won that 

fame I have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without re- 
nown, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my 

son ! 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand. 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke 

of thine, 
Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not 

thou ; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
And Zal miglit weep above my grave, 

not thine ; 
And say : O son Iiveep thee not too sore. 
For tviilingly, I know, thou meVst thine 

end! 
But now in blood and battles was my 

youth. 
And full of blood and battles is my age, 



And I shall never end this life of blood." 
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab 

replied : — 
" A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful 

man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; onh' not 

novv^. 
Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that 

day. 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted 

ship, 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khos- 

roo. 
Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
From laying thy dear master in his 

grave." 
And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, 

and said : — 
" Soon be that day, my son, and deep 

that sea ! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, 

and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and 

eased 
His wound's imperious anguish ; but the 

blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and 

life 
Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his 

cold white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and 

soil'd, 
Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gather'd. on the native 

bank. 
By cliildren whom their nurses call with 

haste 
Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head 

droop'd low, 
His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, 

he lay — 
White, with eyes closed ; only when 

heavy gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all 

his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he open'd 

them. 
And fix'd them feebly on his father's 

face ; 
Till now all strength was ebb'd, and 

from his limbs. 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
Regretting the warm mansion which it 

left, 
And youth, and bloom, and this delight- 
ful world. 
So, on the bloody sand. Sohrab lay 

dead ; 



1 



ARNOLD 



741 



And the great Rustuiu drew his horse- 
man's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead 

son. 
As those black granite pillars, once 

high-rear'd 
By Jenishid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now 'mid their broken flights 

of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the moun- 
tain side — 
80 in the sand lay Rustuni Viy his son. 
And night came down over the sol- 
emn waste. 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole 

pair. 
And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with 

night, 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum 

arose. 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog ; for 

now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took 

their meal ; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river 

marge ; 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low 

land. 
Into the frosty starlight, and there 

moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Choras- 

mian waste. 
Under the solitaiy moon ; — he flow'd 
Right for the polar star, past Orgiinje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large ; then 

sands began 
To hem his watery march, and dam his 

streams. 
And split his currents ; that for many a 

league 
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains 

along- 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy 

isles — 
Oxus. forgetting the bright speed he had 
In liis high mountain-cradle in Pamere. 
A foil'd circuitous wamlerer — till at last 
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard. 

and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, 

bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new- 

Vjathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

1853. 



PHILOMELA 

Hark ! ah, tlie nightingale — 

The tawny-throated ! 

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a 

burst ! 
What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! 

O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
Still, after many years, in distant lands, 
Still nourishing in thj' bewilder'd brain 
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, 

old-world i^ain — 
Say, will it never heal? 
And can this fragr;int lawn 
With its cool trees, and night. 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonsliine, and the dew. 
To thy rack'd heart and brain 
Afford no balm ? 

Dost thou to-night behold. 

Here, through the moonlight on this 

English grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian 

wild ? 
Dost tliou again peruse 
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 

sliame ? 
Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more seem to make 

resound 
With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian 

vale ? 
Listen. Eugenia — 
How thick the bursts come crowding 

through tile leaves ! * 

Again — thou hearest ? 
Eternal passion ! 
Eternal pain ! 1853. 

THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

Go, for thev call you, shepherd, from the 

hill:' 
Go, shepherd, and vmtie tiie wattled 
cotes ! 
No longer leave thy wistful flock un- 
fed, 
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their 
• throats. 
Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another 
head. 
But when the fields are still. 
And tlie tired men and dogs all gone to 
rest , 



742 



BRITISH POETS 



And only the white sheep are some- 
times seen 

Cross and recross the strips of moon- 
blanch'd green, 
Come, shepherd, and again begin tlie 
quest ! 

Here, where the reaper was at work of 

late — 
In this higli field's dark coi'ner, where he 
leaves 
His coat, his basket, and his earthen 
cruse, 
And in the sun all morning binds the 
sheaves, 
Then here, at noon, conies back his 
stores to use — 
Here will I sit and wait. 
While to my ear from uplands far away 
The bleating of the folded flocks is 

borne, 
Witli distant cries of reapers in the 
corn — 
All the live murmur of a summer's day. 

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half- 

reap'd field. 
And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will 
I be. 
Tlirough tlie thick corn tlie scarlet 
poppies peep, 
And round green roots and jellowing 
stalks I see 
Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils 
creep ; 
And air-swept lindens yield 
Their scent, and rustle down their per- 
fumed showers 
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am 

. laid. 
And iiower me from tlie August sun 
with sliade ; 
And the eye travels down to Oxford's 
towers. 

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's 

book — 
Come, let me read the oft-read tale 
again ! 
The story of the Oxford scholar poor, 
Of pregnant parts and quick inventive 
brain. 
Who, tired of knocking at prefer- 
ment's door, 
One summer-morn forsook 
His friends, and went to learn the gipsy- 
lore. 
And roam'd tlie world with tliat wild 
brotherliood. 



And came, as most men deem'd, to lit- 
tle good. 
But came to Oxford and his friends no 
more. 

But once, years after, in the country- 
lanes. 
Two scholars, whom at college erst he 
knew. 
Met him, and of his way of life en- 
quired ; 
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy- 
crew, 
His mates, had arts to rule as they de- 
sired 
The workings of meji's brains, 
And the}' can bind them to what thoughts 
they will. 
'• And 1," he said, " the secret of their 

art. 
When fully learn'd, will to the world 
impart ; 
But it needs heaven-sent moments for 
this skill." 

This said, he left them, and return'd no 

more. — 
But rumors hung about the country- 
side. 
That t]\e lost Scholar long was .seen to 
stray, 
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and 
tongue-tied, 
In hat of antique shape, and cloak of 
gray, 
The same the gipsies wore. 
Siiepherds had met him on the Hurst in 
spring ; 
At some lone alehouse in the Berk- 
shire moors. 
On the warm ingle-bench, the smo("k- 
f rock'd boors 
Had found him seated at their entering. 

But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he 

would fly. 
And I mj-self seem half to know thy 
looks. 
And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on 
thy trace ; 
And boys who in lone wheatfields scare 
the rooks 
I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet 
place ; 
Or ill my boat I lie 
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer- 
heats, 
'Mid wide grass meadows which the 
sunshine fills. 



ARNOLD 



743 



And watch the warm, green-muffled 
Cumiier hills, 
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy 
retreats. 

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired 

ground ! 
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, 
Returning home on summer-nights, 
have met 
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab- 
lock-hithe, 
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers 
wet. 
As the punt's rope ciiops round ; 
And leaning backward in a pensive 
dream. 
And fostering in thy lap a heap of 

flowers 
Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wych- 
wood bowers. 
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit 
stream. 

And then they land, and thou art seen 

no more ! — 
Maidens, who from the distant hamlets 
come 
To dance around the Fyfield elm in 
May, 
Oft through the darkening fields have 
seen thee roam. 
Or cross a stile into the public way. 
Oft thou hast given them store 
Of flowers — the frail-leaf d, white anem- 
one. 
Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of 

summer eves. 
And purple orchises with spotted 
leaves— 
But none hath words she can report of 
thee. 

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay- 
time 's here 
In June, and many a scythe in sunshine 
flames. 
Men who through those wide fields of 
breezy grass 
Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the 
glittering Thames, 
To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass. 
Have often pass'd thge near 
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy 

figure spare, 
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft ab 
stracted air — [wast gone I 

But, when they came fi-om bathing, thou 



At some lone homestead in the Cumner 

hills, 
Where at her open door the housewife 
darns. 
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a 
gate 
To watch the threshers in the mossy 
barns. 
Children, who early range these slopes 
and late 
For cresses from the rills. 
Have known thee eying, all an April- 
day, 
Tlie springing pastures and the feeding 

kine ; 
And mark'd thee, when the stars come 
out and shine. 
Through the long dewy grass move slow 
away. 

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley 

Wood- 
Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged 
way 
Pitch their smoked tents, and every 
bush you see 
With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds 
of gray. 
Above the forest-ground called Thes- 
saly— 
The blackbird, picking food, 
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears 
at all ; 
So often has he known thee past him 

stray. 
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd 
spray, 
And waiting for the spark from heaven 
to fall. 

And once, in winter, on the causeway 

chill 
Where home through flooded fields foot- 
travellers go. 
Have I not pass'd thee' on the wooden 
bridge. 
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with 
the snow, 
Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its win- 
try ridge? 
And thou hast climb'd the hill. 
And gain'd the white brow of the Cum- 
ner range ; 
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the 

snowflakes fall, 
The line of festal light in Christ-Church 
hall- 
Then sought thy straw in some seques- 
ter'd grange. 



744 



BRITISH POETS 



But what — I dream ! Two hundred years 

are flowu 
Since first thy story ran through Oxford 
halls, 
And the grave Glanvil did the tale in- 
scribe 
That thou wert wander'd from the stu- 
dious walls 
To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy- 
tribe ; 
And tliou from earth art gone 
Long since, and in some quiet churcliyard 
laid — 
Some country-nook, where o'er thy un- 
known grave 
Tall grasses and white flowering net- 
tles wave, 
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's 
shade. 

— No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of 

hours ! 
For what wears out the life of mortal 
men? 
Tis that from cliange to change their 
being rolls ; 
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again. 
Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 
And numb the elastic powers. 
Till having used our nerves with bliss 
and teen. 
And tired upon a thousand schemes 

our wit, 
To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
Our worn-out life, and are — what we 
have been. 

Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou 

perish, so? 
Thou hadst owe aim, one business, one 
desire ; 
Else wert thou long since number'd 
with the dead ! 
Else hadst thou spent, like other men, 
thy fire ! 
The generations of thy peers are fled. 
And we ourselves shall go ; 
But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
And we imagine thee exempt from age 
And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's 
page, 
Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! 
have not. 

For early didst thou leave the world, 

with powers 
Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
Firm to their mark, not spent on otlier 

things ; 



Free from the sick fatigue, the languid 
doubt, 
Whicli much to have tried, in much 
been baffled, brings. 
O life unlike to ours ! 
Who fluctuate idly without term or 
scope. 
Of whom each strives, nor knows for' 

what he strives, 
And each half lives a hvmdred difi'er- 
ent lives ; 
Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, 
in hope. 

Thou waitest for the spark from heaven I 

and we. 
Light half-believers of our casual creeds. 
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly 
wiU'd, 
Whose insight never has borne fruit in 
deeds, 
Whose vague resolves never have been 
fulfiU'd ; 
For wliom each year we see 
Bi'eeds new beginnings, disappointments 
new ; 
Who hesitate and falter life away. 
And lose to-morrow the ground won 
to-day — 
Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 

Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays, 
And tlien we sufl^er ! and amongst us one, 
Who most hassufl'erd, takes dejectedly 
His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
And all his store of sad experience he 
Lays bare of wretched days ; 
Tells us his misery's birth and growth 

and signs, 
And how the dying spark of hope was 

fed. 
And how the breast was sootlied, and 

how the head. 
And all his hoiu'ly varied anodynes. 

This for our wisest ! and we others jiine. 
And wish the long unhappy dream 
would end. 
And waive all claim to bliss, and try 
to bear ; 
With close-lipp'd patience for our only 
friend. 
Sad patience, too near neighbor to 
despair — 
But none has hope like thine ! 
Thou through the fields and tlirougli the 
woods dost stray. 
Roaming the country-side*, a truant 
boy, 



ARNOLD 



745 



Nursing tbj' project in uncloude'.l joy. 
And every doubt long blown by time 
away. 

O born in days wlien wits were fresh 

and clear, 
And life ran gaily as the sparkling 
Thames ; 
Before the strange disease of modern 
life, 
With its sick hurry, its divided aims. 
Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, 
was rife — 
Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering 
wood ! 
Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
From her false friend's approach in 
Hades turn. 
Wave us away and keep thy solitude ! 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
With a free onward impulse brushing 
through, 
By night, the silver'd branches of the 
glade — 
Far on the forest-skirts, where none 
pursue. 
On some" mild pastoral slope 
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
With dew, or listen with enchanted 
ears. 
From the dark dingles, to the nightin- 
gales ! 

But f?y our paths, our feverish contact 

fly! 
For strong the infection of our mental 
strife, 
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet 
spoils for rest ; 
And we should win thee from tli.y own 
fair life. 
Like us distracted, and like us uiililest. 
Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix"d 
thy powers. 
And thy clear aims be cross and si lift- 
ing made ; 
And then thy glad perennial youtli 
would fade, 
Fade and grow old at last, and die like 
ours. 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and 

smiles ! 
— As some grave Tyrian trader, from the 

sea, 



Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 

Lifting tliecool-hair'dcreepersstealthily, 

Tlie fringes of a south ward-facing brow 

Among the ^ga?an Isles ; 

And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. 

Freighted with amber grapes, and 

Chian wine, 
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies 
steep'd in brine — 
And knew the intruders on his ancient 
home, 

The young light-hearted masters of the 

waves — 
And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out 
more sail ; 
And daj' and night held on indignantly 
O'er the Blue Midland waters with the 
gale, 
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
To where the Atlantic raves 
Outside the western straits ; and unbent 
sails 
There, where down cloudy cliflfs, 

through slieets of foam, 
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians 
come ; 
And on the beach undid his corded bales. 

1853. 

FROM BALDER DEAD 

SECTION III 

The Gods held talk together, group'd in 

knots, 
Round Balder 's corpse, which they had 

thither borne ; 
And Hermod came down tow'rds thenx 

from the gate. 
And Lok, the father of the serpent, first 
Beheld him come, and to his neighbor 

spake : — 
" See, liere is Hermod, who comes 

single back 
From Hell ; and shall I tell thee how he 

seems ? 
Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog. 
Some morn, at market, in a crowded 

town — 
Through many streets the poor beast 

runs in vain. 
And follows this man after that, for 

hours ; 
And, late at evening, spent and panting, 

falls 
Before a stranger's threshold, not liis 

liome, 
Witli flanks atremble, and his slender 

tongue 



746 



BRITISH POETS 



Hangs quivering out between his dust- 

smear'd jaws, 
And piteously he eyes the passers by ; 
But lionie his master comes to liis own 

farm, 
Far in the country, wondering where he 

is — 
So Hermod comes to-day unfoUow'd 

home." 
And straight his neighbor, moved witli 

wrath, replied : — 
"Deceiver! fair in form, but false in 

heart ! 
Enemy, mocker, whom, though Gods, 

we hate — 
Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee 

gibe ! 
Would I might see him snatch thee in 

his hand, 
And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with 

cords, 
And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim ! 
If clear from plotting Balder's death, to 

swim ; 
But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown, 
And perish, against fate, before thj^ daj'." 
So they two soft to one another spake. 
But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw 
His messenger ; and he stood forth, and 

cried. 
And Hermod came, and leapt from 

Sleipner down. 
And in his father's hand put Sleipner's 

rein , 
And greeted Odin and the Gods, and 

said : — 
" Odin, my father, and ye, Gods of 

Heaven ! 
Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I 

come. 
Into the joyless kingdom have I been. 
Below, and look'd upon the shadowy 

tribes 
Of ghosts, and communed with their 

solemn queen ; 
And to your prayer she sends you this 

reply : 
Show her through all the ivorld the signs 

of grief ! 
Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder 

stops ! 
Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him ; plants 

and stones : 
So shall she knoio your loss teas dear in- 
deed. 
And bend her heart and give you Balder 

back.'" 
He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin 

look'd ; 



And straight the Father of the ages 

said : — 
" Ye Gods, these terms may keep an- 
other day. 
But now, put on your arms, and mount 

your steeds. 
And in procession all come near, and 

weep 
Balder ; for that is what the dead desire. 
When ye. enough have wept, then build 

a pile 
Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse 

with fire 
Out of our sight ; that we may turn from 

grief. 
And lead, as erst, our daily life in 

Heaven." 
He spoke, and the Gods arm'd ; and 

Odin donn'd 
His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold. 
And led the way on Sleipner ; and tlie 

rest 
Follow'd, in teai's, their father and their 

king. 
And thrice in arms around the dead they 

rode. 
Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and 

their arms. 
With their thick-falling tears — so good a 

friend 
They mourn'd that day, so bright, so 

loved a God. 
And Odin came, and laid his kingly 

hands 
On Balder's breast, and thus began the 

wail : — 
" Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, 

my son ! 
In that great day, the twilight of the 

Gods, 
When Muspel's children sliall beleaguer 

Heaven, 
Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy 

arm." 
Thou earnest near the next, O warrior 

Thor ! 
Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot 

drawn. 
Swaying the long-hair'd goats with 

silver'd rein ; 
And over Balder's corpse these words 

didst say : — 
" Brother, thou dwellest in the dark- 
some land. 
And talkest with the feeble tribes of 

ghosts, 
Now, and I know not how they prize 

thee there — [and mourn'd. 

But liere, I know, thou wilt be niiss'd 



ARNOLD 



747 



For haughty spirits and high wraths are 

rife 
Among the Gods and Heroes here in 

Heaven , 
As among those whose joy and work is 

war ; 
And daily strifes arise, and angry words. 
But from thy lips, O Balder, night or 

day, 
Heard no one ever an injurious word 
To God or Hero, but thou keptest back 
Tlie others, laboring to comi:)ose their 

brawls. 
Be ye then kind, asBalder too was kind ! 
For we lose him, who smoothed all strife 

in Heaven." 
He spake, and all the Gods assenting 

wail'd. 
And Freya next came nigli, with golden 

tears ; 
The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by 

all 
Most honor'd after Frea, Odin's wife. 
Her long ago the wandering Oder took 
To mate, but left her to roam distant 

lands ; 
Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears 

of gold. 
Names hath she many ; Vanadis on 

earth 
Tliey call her, Freya is her name in 

Heaven ; 
She in her hands took Balder's head, and 

spake :— 
" Balder, my brother, thou art gone a 

road 
Unknown and long, and haply on that 

way 
My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast 

met, 
For in the patlis of Heaven he is not 

found. 
Oh, if it be so, tell him wliat thou wast 
To his neglected wife, and what he is, 
And wring liis lieart with shame, to liear 

thy word ! 
For he, my husband, left me here to pine. 
Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart 
First drove him from me into distant 

lands ; 
Since then I vainly seek him through 

the world. 
And weep from shore to shore my golden 

tears. 
But neither god nor mortal heeds my 

pain. 
Thou only, Balder, wast for ever kind. 
To take my hand, and wipe my tears, 

and say : 



Weep not, O Freya. iveep no golden tears! 
One day the zoandering Oder ivill return! 
Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful 

search 
On some great road, or resting in an inn, 
Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree. 
So Balder said ; — but Oder, well I know. 
My truant Oder I shall see no more 
To tlie world's end ; and Balder now is 

gone, 
And I am left uncomforted in Heaven." 
She spake ; and all the Goddesses be- 

wail'd. 
Last from among the Heroes one came 

near. 
No God. but of the hero-troop the chief — 
Regner, who swept the northern sea with 

fleets, 
And ruled o'er Denmark and the heathy 

isles. 
Living ; but Ella captured liim and 

slew ; — 
A king whose fame then fill'd the vast of 

Heaven. 
Now time obscures it, and men's later 

deeds. 
He last approach'd the corpse, and 

spake, and said : — 
" Balder, there yet are many Scalds 

in Heaven 
.Still left, and that chief Scald, thy 

brother Brage, 
Whom we may bid to sing, though 

thou art gone. 
And all these gladly, while we drink, 

we hear. 
After the feast is done, in Odin's hall ; 
But they harp ever on one string, and 

wake 
Remembrance in our soul of wars alone. 
Such as on earth we valiantly have 

waged, 
And blood, and ringing blows, and 

violent death. 
But when thou sangest. Balder, thou 

didst strike 
Another note, and, like a bird in spring, 
Thy voice of joyance minded us, and 

youth. 
And wife, and children, and our ancient 

home. 
Yes, and I, too, remember'd then no 

more 
My dungeon, where the serpents stung 

me dead, 
Nor Ella's victory on the English coast — 
But I lieard Tliora laugh in Gothland 

Isle, 
And saw my shepherdess Aslauga, tend 



748 



BRITISH POETS 



Her flock along the white Norwegian 

beach. 
Tears started to mine eyes with yearn- 
ing joy, 
Therefore witli grateful heart I mourn 

thee dead." 
So Regner spake, and all the Heroes 

groan'd. 
But now the sun had pass'd the heiglit 

of Heaven, 
And soon had all that day been spent in 

wail ; 
But til en tlie Father of the ages said : — 
" Ye Gods, there well may be too 

much of wail ! 
Bring now the gather'd wood toBalder's 

ship ; 
Heap on the deck the logs, and build the 

pyre." 
But when the Gods and Heroes heard, 

they brought 
The wood to Balder's ship, and built a 

pile, 
Full tlie deck's breadth, and lofty ; then 

the corpse 
Of Balder on the highest top thej^ laid. 
With Nanna on his right, and on his 

left 
Hoder, his brother, wliom liis own liand 

slew. 
And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
Against the bodies, and stuck torclies 

near. 
Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with tur- 
pentine ; 
And brought liis arms and gold, and all 

liis stuff. 
And slew the dogs wlio at his table fed, 
And his horse, Balder's horse, whom 

most he loved. 
And placed them on the pyre, and Odin 

tlirew 
A last choice gift thereon, his golden 

ring. 
The mast tliey fixed, and hoisted up the 

sails, 
Then they put fire to the wood ; and 

Thor [stern 

Set his stout shoulder hard against the 
To pusli the ship through the tliick sand ; 

sparks flew 
From the deep trench slie plougli'd, so 

strong a God 
Furrow'd it ; and the water gurgled in. 
And the ship floated on the waves, and 

rock'd. 
But in the liills a strong east-wind arose, 
And came down moaning to the sea ; 

first .squalls 



Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady 

rush'd 
The breeze, and fiU'd the sails, and blew 

the fire. 
And wreathed in smoke the ship stood 

out to sea. 
Soon with a roaring rose the miglity 

fire, 
And the pile crackled ; and between the 

logs 
Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot 

out, and leaped. 
Curling and darting, higher, until the\' 

lick'd 
The summit of the pile, the dead, the 

mast, 
And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still 

the ship 
Drove on, alilaze above her hull with 

fire. 
And the Gods stood upon the beach, and 

gazed. 
And while they gazed, the sun went 

lurid down 
Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night 

came on. 
Then the wind fell, with night, and 

there was calm ; 
But through the dark they watch'd the 

burning ship 
Still carried o'er the distant waters on. 
Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. 
And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder's 

pile ; 
But fainter, as the stars rose liigh, it 

flared, 
The bodies were consumed, ash choked 

the pile. 
And as, in a decaying winter-fire, 
A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower 

of sparks — 
So with a shower of sparks the pile fell 

in. 
Reddening the sea around ; and all was 

dark. 
But the Gods went by starlight up tlie 

shore 
To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall 
At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
All night they ate the boar Serimner's 

flesh. 
And from their horns, with silver 

rimm'd. drank mead, 
Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. 
And morning over all the world was 

spread. 
Then fi'om their loathed feasts the Gods 

ai"ose. [ride 

And took their horses, and .set forth to 



ARNOLD 



749 



O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heim- 

dall's watch. 
To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain ; 
Thor came on foot, the rest on horse- 
back rode. 
And they found Miniir sitting by his 

fount 
Of wisdom, which beneath the ashtree 

springs ; 
And saw the Nornies watering the roots 
Of that world-shadowing tree with 

honey-dew. 
There came the Gods, and sate them 

down on stones ; 
And thus the Father of the ages said : — 
" Ye Gods, the terms ye know, wliiirh 

Hermod brought. 
Accept them or reject them ! both have 

grounds. 
Accept them, and they l)ind us, unful- 

fill'd. 
To leave for ever Balder -in the grave. 
An unrecover'd prisoner, shade witli 

shades. 
But how, ye say, should the fulfilment 

fail ?— 
Smooth sound the terms, and light to 

be f ulfill'd ; 
For dear-beloved was Balder wliile he 

lived 
In Heaven and earth, and who would 

grudge him tears ? 
But from the traitorous seed of Lok 

they come, 
The.se terms, and I suspect some hidden 

fraud. 
Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other 

way ?— 
Speak, were not this a wav, the wav for 

Gods ? 
If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms. 
Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior 

Thor 
Drawn in his car beside me, and mj^ 

sons. 
All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell 

my train. 
Should make irruption into Hela's realm, 
And set tlie fields of gloom ablaze with 

light, 
And bring in triumph Balder back to 

Heaven ? "' 
He spake, and his fierce sons applauded 

loud. 
But Frea. mother of the Gods, arose. 
Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she 

said : — 
''Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat 

is this ! 



Thou threatenest what transcends thj' 

might, even thine. 
For of all powers the mightiest far art 

thou. 
Lord over men on earth, and Gods in 

Heaven ; 
Yet even from thee thyself hath been 

withheld 
One thing — to undo what tliou thyself 

hast ruled. 
For all which hath been fixt, was tixt 

by thee. 
In the beginning, ere the' Gods were 

born, 
Before the Heavens were builded, thou 

didst slay 
The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought 

forth. 
Tiiou and thy brethren fierce, the sons 

of Bor, 
And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal 

void. 
But of his flesh and members thou didst 

build 
The eai-th and Ocean, and above them 

Heaven. 
And from the flaming world, wliere 

Muspel reigns. 
Thou sent'st and fetched'st fire, .and 

madest lights, 
Sun, moon, and stars, which tiiou hast 

hung in Heaven, 
Dividing clear the paths of night and 

day. 
And Asgard thou didst build, and Mid- 

gard fort ; 
Then me thou madst ; of us the Gods 

were born. 
Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest 

spars 
Of wood, and framed'st men, who till 

the earth. 
Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail. 
And all the race of Ymir thou didst 

drown. 
Save one, Bergelmer ; — he on shipboard 

fled 
Thy dekige, and from him the giants 

sprang. 
But all that brood tiiou hast removed 

far off. 
And set by Ocean's utmost marge to 

dwell ; 
But Hela into Niflheim thou threw'st. 
And gav'st her nine unlighted worlds to 

rule, 
A queen, and empire over all the dead. 
That empire wilt thou now invade, light 

up 



75° 



BRITISH POETS 



Her darkness, from her grasp a subject 

tear ? — 
Try it ; but 1, for one. will not applaud. 
Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight 
Me and my words, though thou be first 

in Heaven ; 
For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, 
Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are 

sprung ; 
And all that is to come I know, but lock 
In mine own breast, and have to none 

reveal'd. 
Come then ! since Hela holds by right 

her prey, 
But offers terms for his release to 

Heaven, 
Accept tlie chance ; thou canst no more 

obtain. 
Send through the world thy messengers ; 

entreat 
All living and unliving things to weep 
For Balder ; if thou hajjlj' thus maj'st 

melt 
Hela, and win the loved one back to 

Heaven." 
She spake, and on her face let fall her 

veil, 
And bow'd her head, and sate with 

folded hands. 
Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her 

word ; 
Straightway he spake, and tlius ad- 

dress'd the Gods : 
"Go quickly forth through all tlie 

world, and pray 
All living and unliving things to weep 
Balder, if haply he may thus be won." 
When tlie Gods heard, they straight 

arose, and took 
Their horses, and rode forth through all 

the world ; 
North, soutli, east, west, they struck, 

and roam'd the world 
Entreating all things to weep Balder's 

deatli. 
And all that lived, and all without life, 

wept. 
And as in winter, when the frost breaks 

up. 
At winter's end, before the spring 

begins. 
And a warm west-wind blows, and 

thaw sets in — 
After an hour a dripping sound is heard 
In all the forests, and the soft-strewn 

snow 
Under the trees is dibbled thick with 

holes, [shuffle down ; 

And from the boughs the snowloads 



And, in fields sloping to the south, dark 

plots 
Of grass peep out amid surrounding 

snow, 
And widen, and the peasant's heart is 

glad- 
So through the world was heard a drip- 
ping noise 
Of all things weeping to bring Balder 

back ; 
And tliere fell jo}' ujion the Gods to liear. 
But Hermod rode with Niord, whom 

he took 
To show him spits and beaches of the sea 
Far off, where some unwarn'd miglit 

fail to weep — 
Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers 

know ; 
Not born in Heaven ; he was in Van- 

heim rear'd. 
With men, but lives a hostage with the 

Gods ; 
He knows each frith, and every rocky 

creek 
Fi'inged with dark pines, and sands 

where seafowl scream — 
They two scour'd every coast, and all 

things wept. 
And they rode home together, through 

the wood 
Of Jarnvid, wliichtoeast of Midgardlies 
Bordering the giants, where the trees 

are iron ; 
There in the wood before a cave tliey 

came, 
Where sate, in the cave's mouth, askmiiy 

hag. 
Toothless and old ; she gibes the passers 

by. 

Thok is she call'd, but now Lok wore her 

sliape ; 
She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, 

and said : — 
"Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in 

Heaven, 
Tliat ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron 

wood ? 
Lovers of change ye are, fastidious 

sprites. 
Look, as in some boor's j^ard a sweet - 

breath'd cow, 
Whose manger is stuff'd full of good 

fresh hay, 
Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head 
To chew the straw, her litter, at her f eet— 
So ye grow squeamish, Gods, and sniff 

at Heaven ! " 
She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her 

and said : — 



ARNOLD 



7S5 



" Tliok, not for gibes we come, we come 

for tears. 
Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, 
But will restore, if all things give him 

tears. 
Begrudge not thine I to all was Balder 

dear." 
Then, with a louder laugh, the hag 

replied : — 
" Is Balder dead? and do ye come for 

tears ? 
Tliok with dry eyes will weep o'er 

Balder's pyre. 
Weep him all other things, if weep they 

will — 
I weep him not ! let Hela keep her prey." 
She spake, and to tlie cavern's deptli 

she fled, 
Mocking ; and Hermod knew their toil 

was vain. 
And as seafaring men, who long have 

wrought 
In the great deep for gain, at last come 

home, 
And towards evening see the headlands 

rise 
Of tlieir dear country, and can plain 

descry 
A fire of wither'd furze which boys have 

lit 
Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning 

weeds 
Out of a till'd field inland ; — then the 

wind 
Catches them, and drives out again to 

sea ; 
And they go long days tossing up and 

down 
Over the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpse 
Of port they had makes bitterer far their 

toil- 
So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their 

joy- 
Then, sad at lieart, to Niord Hermod 

spake : — 
" It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all ! 
Ride back, and tellin Heaven this heavy 

news ; 
I must again below, to Hela's realm." 
He spoke ; and Niord set forth back to 

Heaven. 
But northward Hermod rode, the way 

below, 
The way he knew ; and traversed Giall's 

stream, 
And down to Ocean groped, and ci-oss'd 

the ice, 
And came beneatli the wall, and found 

the grate 



Still lifted ; well was his return fore- 
known. 
And once more Hermod saw around him 

s])read 
The jovless plains, and lieard the streams 

of Hell. 
But as he enter 'd, on the extremest 

bound 
Of Niflheim, lie saw one ghost come 

near. 
Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid — 
Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand 

slew. 
And Hermod look'd, and knew his 

brotlier's ghost. 
And call'd him by his name, and sternly 

said : — 
'Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and 

eyes ! 
Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the 

gulf 
Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here. 
In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, 
Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's 

throne? 
Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's 

voice. 
Thy brother, whom through folly thou 

didst slay." 
He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, 

and said : — 
"Hermod the nimlile. dost thou still 

pursue 
The unhappy with reproach, even in the 

grave ? 
For this I died, and fled beneath the 

glooin. 
Not daily to endure abhorring Gods, 
Nor witii a hateful presence cumber 

Heaven ; 
And canst thou not, even liere, pass pity- 
ing by? 
No less than Balder have I lost the light 
Of Heaven, andcommunion with my kin; 
I too had once a wife, and once a child. 
And substance, and a golden house in 

Heaven — 
But all I left of my own act, and fled 
Below, and dost thou hate )ne even here ? 
Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all. 
Though he has cause, have any cause ; 

but he, 
When that with downcast looks I hither 

came. 
Stretch'd forth his hand, and with be- 
nignant voice. 
Welcome, he said, if there be welcome 

here. 
Brother and felloio-sport of Lok with me ! 



752 



BRITISH POETS 



And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to 

force 
Mjr hated converse on thee, came I up 
From the deep gloom, where I will now 

return ; 
But earnestly I long'd to hover near. 
Not too far off, when that thou camest b}^; 
To feel the presence of a brother God, 
And hear the passage of a horse of 

Heaven . 
For the last time — for here thou com'st 

no more." 
He spake, and turn'dtogototheinuer 

gloom. 
But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, 

and said :— 
" Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder 
blind ! 
Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty 

mind 
Was Lok's : the unwitting hand alone 

was tliiiie. 
But Gods are like the sons of men in 

this 
When they have woe, they blame the 

nearest cause. 
Howbeit stay, and be appeased ! and 

tell: 
Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side. 
Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd 

dead ? "' 
And the blind Hoder answer'd him 

and spake : — 
" His place of state remains by Hela's 

side, 
But empty ; for his wife, for Nanua 

came 
Lately below, and joinM him ; and the 

pair 
Frequent the still recesses of the realm 
Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. 
But they too, doubtless, will have 

breathed the halm, 
Which floats before a visitant from 

Heaven, 
And have drawn upward to this verge of 

Hell." 
He spake ; and, as he ceased, a puff 

of wind 
Roll'd heavily the leaden mist aside 
Round where the\' stood, and they be- 
held two forms 
j\Iake toward them o'er the stretching 

cloudy plain. 
And Hermod straight perceived them. 

who they were 
Balder and Nanna : and to Balder said : — 
"Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a 

snare ! 



Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her 

prey. 
No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor 

lodge 
In thy own house. Breidablik, nor enjoy 
The love all bear toward thee, nor train 

up 
Forset. thy son, to be beloved like thee. 
Here must thou lie, and wait an endless 

age. 
Tlierefore for the last time, O Balder. 

hail ! " 
He spake ; and Balder answer'd him, 

and said : — • 
"Hail and farewell! for here thou 

com'st no more. 
Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when 

thou sitt'st 
In Heaven, nor let the other Gods 

lament, 
As wlioUy to be pitied, quite forlorn. 
For Nanna hath rejoin'd me. who, of old, 
In Heaven, was seldom parted from my 

side ; 
And still the acceptance follows me, 

whicli crown'd 
My former life, and c;heeis me even here. 
The iron frown of Hela is relax'd 
When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes 

of dead 
Love me. and gladly bring for my award 
Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates — 
Shadows of hates, but they distress 

them still." 
And the fleet-footed Hermod made 

reply :— 
" Thou hast then all the solace death 

allows. 
Esteem and function ; and so far is well. 
Yet here thouliest. Balder, underground. 
Rusting for ever ; and the years roll on. 
The generations pass, the ages grow. 
And bring us nearer to the final day 
When from the south shall march the 

fiery band 
And cross the bridge of Heaven, wit ii 

Lok for guide, 
And Fenris at his heel with brokcu 

chain ; 
While from the east the giant Rymer 

steers 
His sliip. and the great serpent makes to 

land : 
And all are marshall'd in one flaming 

square 
Against the Gods, upon the plains of 

Heaven . 
I mourn thee, that thou canst not help 

us tiien." 



ARNOLD 



753 



He spake ; but Balder ansvvei'M him, 

and said : — 
" Mourn not for me ! Mourn, Hermod, 

for the Gods ; 
Mourn for the nien on earth, the Gods 

in Heaven, 
Who live, and with their eyes shall see 

that day ! 
The day vv'ill come, wlien fall shall As- 

gard's towers. 
And Odin, and his sons, the seed of 

Heaven ; 
But what were I, to save them in tliat 

hour ? 
If strength might save them, could not 

Odin save, 
My father, and his pride, the wai'rior 

Thor. 
Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr? 
I, what were I, when these can nought 

avail ? 
Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle 

comes. 
And the two hosts are marshall'd, and 

in Heaven 
The golden-crested cock shall sound 

alarm. 
And his black brother-bird from hence 

reply. 
And bucklei'S clash, and spears begin to 

pour — 
Longing will stir within my breast, 

tliougli vain.- 
But not to me so grievous, as, I know. 
To other Gods it were, is niv enforced 
Absence from fields where I could noth- 
ing aid ; 
For lam long since weary of your storm 
Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your 

life 
Sometliing too much of war and broils, 

which make 
Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. 
Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy 

hail ; 
Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and 

sick for calm. 
Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 
Unarm'd, inglorious ; I attend the course 
Of ages, and my late return to liglit, 
III times less alien to a spirit mild. 
In new-recover'd seats, the happier day." 
He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus 

replied : — 
" Brother, what seats are these, what 

happier day? 
Tell me, that I may ponder it when 

gone." [him: — 

And tlie ray-crowned Balder answer'd 
48 



" Far to the south, beyond the blue, 
there spreads 

Another Heaven, the boundless — no one 
yet 

Hath reach'd it ; there hereafter shall 
arise 

Tlie second Asgard, with another name. 

Thither, when o'er this present earth 
and Heavens 

The tempest of the latter days hath 
swept, 

And they from sight have disappeared, 
and sunk, 

Sliall a small remnant of the Gods re- 
pair ; 

Hoder and I shall join them from the 
grave. 

There re-assembling we shall see emerge 

From the bright Ocean at our feet an 
earth 

More fresh, more verdant than the last, 
witli fruits 

Self-springing, and a seed of man pre- 
served. 

Who tlien shall live in peace, as now in 
war. 

But we in Heaven shall find again with 

joy 

The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats 

Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of 
old; 

Re-enter them with wonder, never fill 

Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with 
tears. 

And we shall tread once more tlie well- 
known plain 

Of Ida, and among the grass shall find 

The golden dice wlierewith we play'd of 
yore ; 

And that will bring to mind tlie former 
life 

And pastime of the Gods, the wise dis- 
course 

Of Odin, the delights of other days. 

Hermod, pray that tliou may'st join 

us then ! 
Such for the future is my hope ; mean- 
while, 

1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure 
Death, and the gloom which round me 

even now 
Tliickens, and to its inner gulf recalls. 
Farewell, for longer speech is not al- 

low'd ! " 
He spoke, and waved farewell, and 

gave his hand 
To Nanna ; and she gave their brother 

bUnd [the three 

Her hand, in turn, for guidance ; and 



754 



BRITISH POETS 



Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon 
Faded from sight into the interior gloom. 
But Hermod stood beside his drooping 

horse, 
Mute, gazing after them in tears ; and 

fain, 
Fain had he foUow'd their receding steps, 
Though they to death were bound, and 

lie to Heaven, 
Then ; but a power he could not break 

withheld. 
And as a stork which idle boys have 

trapp'd. 
And tied him in a j^ard, at autumn sees 
Flocks of his kind pass flying o'er his 

head 
To warmer lands, and coasts that keep 

the sun ; — 
He strains to join their flight, and from 

his shed 
Follows them with a long complaining 

cry- 
So Hermod gazed, and yearn'd to join 

his kin. 

At last he sigh'd, and set fortli back 
to Heaven. 1855. 

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE 

CHARTREUSE 

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused 
With rain, where thick the crocus blows. 
Past the dark forges long disused, 
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 
Tiie bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride. 
Through forest, up tlie mountain-side. 

The autumnal evening darkens round, 
Tlie wind is up, and drives the rain ; 
While, hark ! far down, with strangled 

sound 
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain. 
Where that wet smoke, among the 

woods. 
Over his boiling cauldron broods. 

Swift rush the spectral vapors white 
Past limestone scars with ragged pines. 
Showing — then blotting from our 

sight ! — 
Halt — through the cloud-di-if t something 

shines ! 
High in the valley, wet and drear. 
The huts of Courrerie appear. 

Strike leftward ! cries our guide ; and 

higher 
Mounts up the stony forest-way. 
At last the encircling trees retire ; 



Look ! through the showery twilight 

gray 
What pointed roofs are these advance ? — 
A{imlace of the Kings of France? 

Approach, for what we seek is here ! 
Alight, and sparely sup, and wait 
For rest in this oiitbuilding near ; 
Then cross the sward and reach that 

gate. 
Knock ; pass the wicket ! Thou art 

come 
To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 

The silent courts, where night and day 
Into their stone-carved basins cold 
The splashing icy fountains play — 
The humid corridors beiiold ! 
Where, ghostlike in the deepening night 
Covvl'd forms brusli by in gleaming 
white. 

The chapel, where no organ's peal 
Invests the stern and naked prayer — 
With penitential cries thej' kneel 
And wrestle : rising then, with bare 
And white uplifted faces stand. 
Passing the Host from hand to hand ; 

Each takes, and then his visage wan 
Is buried in his cowl once more. 
The cells ! — the suffering Son of Man 
Upon the wall — tlie knee-worn floor — 
And where they sleep, that Avooden bed. 
Wliich shall their coflfin be, when dead ! 

The library, where tract and tome 
Not to feed priestly pride are there. 
To hymn the conquering march of Rome, 
Nor yet to amuse, as ours are 1 
They paint of souls the inner strife. 
Their drops of blood, their death in life. 

The garden, overgrown — yet mild, 
See, fragrant herbs are flowering there ! 
Strong children of the Alpine wild 
Whose culture is the brethi'en's care ; 
Of human tasks their only one. 
And cheerful works beneath the sun. 

Tliose halls, too. destined to contain 
Each its own pilgrim-host of old. 
From England, Germany, or Spain — 
All are before me ! I behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere ! 
— And what am I, that I am here ? 

For rigorous teachers seized my youth. 

And purged its faith, and trimm'd its 

fire, 



ARNOLD 



755 



Show'd nie the bigli, white star of Truth, 
There bade me gaze, and there aspire. 
Even now their whispers pierce the 

gloom ; 
miat dost thou in t]iis living tomb ? 

Forgive me, masters of the mind ! 

At whose behest I long ago 

So much unlearnt, so much resign'd — 

I come not here to be your foe ! 

I seek tliese anchorites, not in ruth. 

To curse and to deny your truth ; 

Not as tlieir friend, or child, I speak ! 
But as, on some far nortliern strand, 
Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek 
In pity and mournful awe might stand 
Before some fallen Runic stone — 
For both were faiths, and both are gone. 

Wandering between two worlds, one 

dead, 
Tiie other powerless to be born, 
With nowhere yet to rest my head, 
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. 
Their faith, my tears, the world deride — 
I come to shed them at their side. 

Oil. hide me in your gloom profound. 

Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! 

Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me 

round 
Till I possess my soul again ; 
Till free my thoughts before me roll, 
Not chafed by hourly false control ! 

For the world cries your faith is now 

But a dead time's exploded dream ; 

My melancholy, sciolists say, 

Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme — 

As if the world had ever had 

A faith, or sciolists been sad ! 

Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, 
At least, the restlessness, the pain ; 
Be man henceforth no more a prey 
To these out-dated stings again ! 
The nobleness of grief is gone — 
Ah, leave us not the fret alone ! 

But — if you cannot give us ease — 
Last of the race of them who grieve 
Here leave us to die out with these 
Last of the people who believe ! 
Silent, while years engrave the brow ; 
Silent — tlie best are silent now. 

Achilles ponders in his tent, 

The kings of modern thought are dumb ; 

Silent they are, though not content. 



And wait to see the future come. 
They have the grief men had of yore, 
But they contend and cry no more. 

Our fathers water'd with their tears 
This sea of time whereon we sail, 
Their voices were in all men's ears 
We pass'd within tlieir puissant hail. 
Still the same ocean round us raves. 
But we stand mute, and watch tlie waves. 

For what avail'd it, all the noise 
And outciy of the former men ? — 
Say, have their sons achieved more joys. 
Say. is life lighter now than tlien : 
Tlie sufferers died, tiiey left their pain — • 
The pangs which tortured them remain. 

What'helps it now, that Byron bore. 
With haughty scf)rn which mock "d the 

smart, 
Througli Europe to the ^Etolian shore 
The pageant of his bleeding heart ? 
That thousands counted every groan, 
And Europe made his W(je her own ? 

What boots it, Shelley ! tliat the breeze 
Carried thy lovely wail away. 
Musical through Italian trees 
Which fringe thy soft blue Sjiezzian 

bay? 
Inheritors of thy distress 
Have restless hearts one thi'ob the less ? 

Or are we easier, to have read, 
O Obermann ! the sad, stern page, 
Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy 

head 
From the fierce tempest of thine age 
In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, 
Or chalets near the Alpine snow ? 

Ye slumber in your silent grave ! — 
The world, which for an idle day 
Grace to your mood of sadness gave, 
Long since hath flung her weeds away. 
Tlie eternal trifler breaks j'our spell ; 
But we — we learned your lore too well I 

Years hence, pei'haps, may dawn an age. 
More fortunate, alas ! than we, 
Wliicli without hardness will, be sage. 
And gay without frivolity. 
Sons of the world, oh, speed those years ; 
But, wiiile we wait, allow our tears ! 

Allow them ! We admire with awe 
Tlie exulting thunder of your race ; 
You give the universe your law, 



756 



BRITISH POETS 



You tiiuniph over time and space ! 
Your pride of life, yoiu- tireless powers, 
We laud them, but they are not ours. 

We are like children rear'd in shade 
Beneath some old-world abbey wall. 
Forgotten in a forest-glade. 
And secret from the e^'es of all. 
Deep, deep the greenwood I'ound them 

waves, 
Their abbey, and its close of graves ! 

But, wliere the road runs near thestream, 
Oft through tlie trees they catch a glance 
Of passing troops in the sun's beam — 
Pennon, and plume, and fl;ishing lance ! 
Forth to the world those soldiers fare, 
To life, to cities, and to war ! 

And through the wood," another way. 
Faint bugle-notes from far are borne. 
Where hvmters gatlier, staghounds V)ay, 
Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. 
Gay dames are there, in sylvan green ; 
Laughter and cries — those notes be- 
tween ! 

The banners flashing through the trees 
Make their blood dance and chain their 

eyes ; 
That bugle-music on the breeze 
Arrests them with a cliarm'd sin-prise. 
Banner by turns and bugle woo : 
Ye shy recluses, foUuiv too ! 

O children, what do ye reply ? — 
" Action and pleasure, will ye roam 
Through these secluded dells to cry 
And call us ? — Vjut too late ye come ! 
Too late for us yom- call ye blow. 
Whose bent was taken long ago. 

" Long since we pace this shadow'd nave ; 
We watch those yellow tapers shine. 
Emblems of hope over the grave, 
In the high altar's depth divine ; 
The organ carries to our ear 
Its accents of another sphere. 

'• Fenced early in this cloistral round 

Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, 

How should we grow in other ground ? 

How can we flower in foreign air ? 

— Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease ; 

And leave our desert to its jieace ! " 

1855.1 



' In Fraser^s Magazine. First included in Ar- 
nold's Poetical Works in 1867. 



FROM SWITZERLAND 

ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE 

We were apart ; yet, day by day, 
I l)ade my heart more constant be. 
I bade it keep the world away. 
And grow a home for onlj- thee ; 
Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew. 
Like mine, each day, more tried, more 
true. 

The fault was grave ! I might have 

known, 
What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — 
The heart can bind itself alone. 
And faith may oft be unreturn'd, 
Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — 
Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Fare- 
well ! 

Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart, 
Which never yet without.remorse 
Even for a moment didst depart 
Fi'om thy remote and sphered course 
To haunt the place where passions X'eign — 
Back to thy solitude again ! 

Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame 
Which Luna felt, that summer-night, 
Flash through her jKire immortal frame. 
When she forsook the starry height 
To hang over Endymion's sleep 
Upon the jjine-grown Latmian steep. 

Yat she. chaste queen, had never proved 
How vain a thing is mortal love. 
Wandering in Heaven, far removed. 
But thou hast long had place to prove 
Tins truth — to prove, and make thine 

own : 
'• Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone." 

Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
Which touch thee are unmating things — 
Ocean and clouds and night and day ; 
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; 
And life, and others' joy and pain, 
And love, if love, of happier men. 

Of happier men — for they, at least. 
Have dream' d two human hearts might 

blend 
In one. and were through faith released 
From isolation without end 
Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less 
Alone than thou, their loneliness. 

1857. 



ARNOLD 



757 



TO MARGUERITE — CONTINUED 

Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, 
With echoing straits between us thrown, 
Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
We mortal millions live alone. 
The islands feel the enclasping flow, 
And then their endless bounds they 
know. 

But when tlie moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring. 
And in their glens on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; 
And lovely notes, from sliore to shore, 
Across the sounds and channels pour — 

Oh ! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent ! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

Oh, might our marges meet again ! 

Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, coolM ? 
Who renders vain their deep desire ? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplvimb'd, salt, estranging sea. 

(1853.)! 1857. 

THYRSI.S2 

A Monody, to commenioratc the author's 
friend, 

Arthur Hugh Clough, icho died at 
Florence, ISGl 

How changed is here each spot man 
makes or fills ! 
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the 
same ; 
The village street its haunted man- 
sion lacks, 
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's 
name, 
And from the roofs the twisted chim- 
ney-stacks — 

1 Standing alone, under the title : To Marguerite. 

' " There are in the English language three 
elegiac poems so great that they eclipse and 
efface all the elegiac poetry we know ; all of 
Italian, all of Greek. It is only because the 
latest born is yet new to us that it can seem 
strange or rash to say so. The Thi/rsis of Mr. 
Arnold makes a third with Li/citlns and 
Adotiais. . . . Thi/rsis, like Lijcidas, has a quiet 
and tender undertone which gives it something 
of sacred." (Swinburne.) 



Are ye too changed, ye hills ? 
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
To-night from Oxford up your path- 
way strays ! 
Here came I often, often, in old days — 
Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 

Runs it not here, the track by Childs- 
worth Fai"m, 
Past the high wood, to where the elm- 
tree crowns 
The hill behind whose ridge the sun- 
set flames ? 
The signal-elm, that l5oks on Ilsley 
Downs, 
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the 
youthful Thames ? — 
Tliis winter-eve is warm. 
Humid tlie air ! leafless, yet soft as 
spring. 
The tender purple spray on copse 

and briars ! 
And that sweet city with her dreamr 
ing spires, 
Slie needs not June for beauty's height- 



Lovely all times she lies, lovely to- 
night ! — 
Onl)'. methinks, .some loss of habit's 
power 
Befalls me wandering through tliis 
upland dim. 
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any 
hour ; 
Now seldom come I, since I came with 
him. 
That single elm-tree bright 
Against the west — ^I miss it ! is it gone ? 
We prized it dearl}^ : while it stood, 

we said. 
Our friend, the Gipsy -Scholar, was 
not dead ; 
While tJie tree lived, he in these fields 
lived on. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits 
here. 
But once I knew each field, each 
flower, each stick ; 
And witli the country-folk acquain- 
tance made 
By barn in threshing-time, by new- 
built rick. 
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we 
first assay 'd. 
All me ! this many a year 
My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holi- 
day ! 



75« 



BRITISH POETS 



Needs must I lose them, needs with 

heavy heart 
Into the world and wave of men de- 
part ; 
But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 

It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
He loved each simple joy the country 
yields, 
He loved his mates ; but yet he could 
not keep, 
For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, 
Here with the shepherds and the 
silly sheep. 
Some life of men unblest 
He knew, which made him droop, and 
fill'd his head. 
He went ; his piping took a trouliled 

sound 
Of storms that rage outside our 
happy ground ; 
He could Jiot wait their passing, he is 
dead. 

So. some tempestuous incn'n in early 

June, [is o"er, 

"When the year's primal burst of bloom 

Before tiie roses and the longest 

day — [floor 

When garden-walks and all the grass}' 

With blossoms red and wliite of 

fallen May 

And chesinut-flowers are strewn — 

So have I heard the cuckoo's parting 

cry, 

From the wet field, througli the vext 

garden-trees, 
Come with the volleying rain and 
tossing breeze : 
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom 
go I! 

Too quick despairer. wherefore wilt thovi 
go? 
Soon will the high Midsummer ptm]|is 
come on. 
Soon will the musk carnations break 
and swell. 
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snap- 
dragon, 
Sweet-William with his homely 
cottage-smell. 
And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
Roses tliat down the alleys shine afar, 
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 
And groups under the dreaming 
garden trees, 
And the full moon, and the white 
evening-star. 



He barkens not ! light comer, he is 
flown ! 
AVhat matters it ? next year he will 
return. 
And we shall have him in the 
sweet spring-days, 
AVith whitening hedges, and un- 
crumpling fern. 
And blue-bells trembling by the 
forest-ways. 
And scent of liay new-mown. 
But Thyrsis never more we swains 
shall see ; 
See him come back, and cut a 

smoother reed. 
And blow a strain the world at last 
shall heed — 
For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd 
thee ! 

Alack, for Cor}'don no rival now ! — 
But when Sicilian .shepherds lost a 
mate, 
Some good survivor with his flute 
would go. 
Piping a ditt\' sad for Bion's fate ; 
And cross the unpermitted ferry's 
flow. 
And relax Pluto's brow, 
And make leap up with joy the beaute- 
ous head 
Of Proserpine, among whose 

crowned hair 
Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian 
air. 
And flute his friend, like Orjjheus, 
from the dead. 

O easy access to the hearer's grace 

When Dorian shepherds sang to 
Proserpine ! 
For she herself had trod Sicilian 
fields, 
She knew the Dorian water's gush 
divine. 
She knew each lily white which 
Enna yields. 
Each rose with blushing face ; 
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian 
strain. 
But ah, of our poor Thames she 
never heard ! [stirr'd : 

Her foot the Cumner cowslips never 
And we should tease her with our 
plaint in vain ! 

Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the 

words will be, [hour 

Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its 



I 



ARNOLD 



759 



In the old liaunt. and find our tree- 


I see her veil draw soft across the 


topp'd hill ! 


day, 


Who, if not I. for questing here hath 


I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 


power ? 


The cheek grown thin, the brown 


I know .the wood which hides the 


hair sprent with gray ; 


daffodil, 


I feel her finger light 


I know the Fyfield tree, 


Laid pausefully upon life's headlong 


I know what white, what purple fri- 


train ; — 


tillaries 


Tlie foot less prompt to meet the 


The grassy harvest of the river- 


morning dew, 


fields. 


The heart less bounding at emo- 


Above by Ensham, down by Sand- 


tion new. 


ford, yields, 


And hope, once crush'd, less quick to 


And what sedged brooks are Thanies's 


spring again. 


tributaries ; 






And long the way appears, which 


I know these slopes ; who knows them 


seem'd so short 


if not I ?— 


To the less practised eye of sanguine 


But many a dingle on the loved liill- 


youth ; 


side. 


And high the mountain-tops, in 


With thorns once studded, old. 


cloudy air. 


white-blossom'd trees. 


The mountain-tops where is the 


Where thick the cowslips grew, and 


throne of Truth. 


far descried 


Tops in life's morning-svin so bright 


High tower'd the spikes of purple 


and bare ! 


orchises. 


Unbreachable the fort 


Hath since our day put by 


Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its 


The coronals of that forgotten time : 


wall ; 


Down each gi'een bank hath gone 


And strange and vain the earthly 


the ploughboy's team. 


turmoil grows. 


And only in the hidden brookside 


And near and real the charna of thy 


gleam 


repose. 


Primroses, orphans of the flowery 


And night as welcome as a friend 


prime. 


would fall. 


Where is the girl, who by the boatman's 


But hush ! the upland hath a sudden 


door. 


loss 


Above the locks, above the boating 


Of quiet ! — Look, adown the dusk 


throng, 


hill-side, 


Unmoor'd our pikiff" when through 


A troop of Oxford hunters going 


the Wytham flats. 


home. 


Red loosestrife and blond meadow- 


As in old days, jovial and talking, 


sweet among 


ride ! 


And darting swallows and light 


From hunting with the Berkshire 


water-gnats. 


hounds they come. 


We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 


Quick ! let me fly. and cross 


Where are the mowers, who, as the 


Into j'on further field ! — 'Tis done, 


tiny swell 


and see, 


Of our boat passing heaved the river- 


Back'd by the sunset, which doth 


grass, 


glorify 


Stood with suspended scj'the to see 


The orange and pale violet evening- 


us pass ? — 


sky, 


They all are gone, and thou art gone 


Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! 


as well I 


the Tree! 


Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too 


I take the omen ! Eve lets down her 


the night 


veil, 


In ever-n earing circle weaves her 


The white fog creeps from bush to 


shade. 


bush about. 



76o BRITISH 


POETS 


Tlie west unflushes, tlie liigh stars 


'Neath the mild canopy of English air 


grow bright. 


That loneh^ tree against the western 


And in the scatter'd farms the lights 


sky. 


come out. 


Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 


I cannot reach tlie signal-tree to- 


Our Gipsv-Scholar haunts, outliving 


night, 


tliee ! 


•Yet, liappy omen, hail ! 


Fields where soft sheep from cages 


Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno- 


pull the hay, 


vale 


Woods with anemones in flower till 


(For there thine earth-forgetting 


May, 


eyelids keep 


Know him a wanderer still ; then why 


The morningless and unawakening 


not me ? 


sleep 




Under the flowery oleanders pale), 


A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 




Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 


Hear it, Thyrsis, still our tree is 


This does not come with houses or 


there ! — 


with gold, 


Ah, vain ! These English fields, this 


With place, with honor, and a flatter- 


upland dim, 


ing crew ; 


These brambles pale with mist en- 


'Tis not in the world's market 


garlanded. 


bouglit and sold — 


That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not 


But the smooth-slipping weeks 


for him ; 


Drop by, and leave its seeker still 


To a boon southern country he is 


untii-ed ; 


fled. 


Out of the heed of mortals he is 


And now in happier air. 


gone. 


Wandering with the great Mother's 


He wends unfollow'd, he must house 


train divine 


alone ; 


(And purer or more subtle soul than 


Yet on he fares, by his own heart in- 


thee. 


spired. 


I trow, the mighty Mother doth not 




see) 


Thou too, Thyrsis, on like quest wast 


Within a folding of the Apennine, 


bound ; 




Thou wanderedst with me for a little 


Thou hearest the immortal chants of 


hour ! 


old !— 


Men gave thee nothing ; but this 


Putting his sickle to the perilous 


happy quest. 


grain 


If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee 


In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian 


power. 


king. 


If men procured thee trouble, gave 


For thee the Lityerses-song again 


thee rest. 


Young Daphnis with his silver voice 


And this rude Cumner ground. 


doth sing ; 


Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its 


Sings his Sicilian fold. 


quiet fields. 


His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded 


Here cams't tliou in thy jocund 


eyes— 


youthful time. 


And liow a call celestial round him 


Here was thine lieight of strength. 


rang. 


thy golden prime ! 


And heavenward from the fountain- 


And still the haunt beloved a virtue 


brink he sprang. 


yields. 


And all the marvel of the golden 




skies. 


Wliat though the music of thv rustic 




flute 


There thou art gone, and me thou leavest 


Kept not for long its happy, country 


here 


tone ; 


Sole in these fields ! yet will I not de- 


Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy 


spair. 


note 


Despair I will not, while I yet de- 


Of men contention-tost, of men who 


scry 


groan. 



ARNOLD 



761 



Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and 
tired tliy throat — 
It faird, and thou wast mute ! 
Yet hadst thou always visions of our 
light. 
And long with men of care thou 
couldst not sta.y. 
And soon thy foot resumed its wau- 
dei'ing way, 
Left liuman haunt, and on alone till 
niglit. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits 
here ! 
'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of 
yore, 
Tliyrsis ! in reach of sheep-hells is 
my home. 
— Then through the great town's harsh, 
Jieart-wearying roar. 
Let in thy voice a whisper often 
come, 
To chase fatigue and fear : 
Wliy faintest thou ! Iwander'd till Idled. 
Roam oil! Tlie light ive sought is 

shinijig still. 
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet 
i. crowns the hill. 

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. 

186(3. 

YOUTH AND CALM 

'Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is liere. 
And ease from shame, and rest from fear. 
There's nothing can dismarble now 
The suioothness of tliat limpid brow. 
But is a calm like this, in truth. 
The crowning end of life and youth. 
And when this boon rewards the dead. 

I Are all debts paid, has all been said '? 

F And is the heart of youth so light, 
Tts step so firm, its eyes so bright. 
Because on its hot brow there blows 
A wind of promise and repose 
From the far grave, to which it goes ; 
Because it hath the hope to come. 
One day, to harbor in the tomb? 
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 
For daylight, for the cheerful sun. 
For feeling nerves and living breath — 
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. 
It dreams a rest, if not inore deep, 
More grateful than this marble sleep ; 
It hears a voice within it tell : 
CalDis not life's crown, though calm is 

roell. 
T is all perhaps which man acquires. 
But 'tis not what our youth desires. 

(185:2). 1867. 



AUSTERITY OF POETRY 

That son of Italy who tried to blow, 
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred 

song, 
In his light youth amid a festal throng 
Sate with his bride to see a public show. 
Fair was the bride, and on her front did 

glow 
Youth like a star ; and what to youth 

belong — 
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation 

strong. 
A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! 

lo, 
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, 

slie lay ! 
Shuddering, they drew her garments 

off — and foimd 
A robe of sackcloth next the smootli, 

white skin. 
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! 

young, gay. 
Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden 

ground 
Of thought and of austerity within. 

1867. 

WORLDLY PLACE 

Even in a judaee. life may he led well! 
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 
Marcus Aurelius. But ilie stifling den 
Of couimon life, where, crowded up 

pell-mell. 
Our freedom for a little l)read we sell. 
And drudge under some foolish master's 

ken 
Who rates lis if we jieer outside our 

pen — 
]Match"(l with a palace, is not this a hell? 
Even in, a j^alace / (),, ]^]^ truth sincere. 
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever 

came ; 
And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
I'll stop, and say : "There were no suc- 
cor here ! 
Tlie aids to noble life are all within." 

1867. 

EAST LONDON 

"TvvAS August, and the fierce sun over- 
head 

Smote on the scjualid streets of Bethnal 
Green. 

And the p;de weaver, through his 
windows seen 

In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispii'ited. 



762 



BRITISH POETS 



I met a preaclier there I knew, and said : 
" 111 and o"erwork"d, how fare you in 

this scene ? " — 
" Bi'avely ! " said he ; " for I of late liave 

been 
Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, 

the living bread.''' 
O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
Set up a mark of everlasting liglit. 
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou 

roam — 
Not with lost toil thou laborest through 

the night ! 
Thou niak'st the heaven thou hoj)'st 

indeed thy home. 1867. 

WEST LONDON 

Crouch'd on the pavement, close by 
Belgrave Square. 

A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue- 
tied. 

A babe was in her arms, and at her side 

A girl ; their clothes were rags, their 
feet were bare. 

Some laboring men. whose work lay 
somewhere there. 

Pass'd opposite ; she touch'd her girl, 
who hied 

Across, and begg'd, and came back 
satisfied. 

The rich she had let pass with frozen 
stare. 

Thought I : " Above her state this spirit 
towel's ; 

She will not ask of aliens, but of friends. 

Of sharers in a common human fate. 

She turns from that cold succor, which 
attends 

The unknown little from the unknow- 
ing great. 

And points us to a better time than 
ours." 18(J7. 

EAST AND WEST 

In the bare midst of Anglesey thej^ show 

Two springs which close by one another 
play; 

And, "Thirteen hundred years agone,"' 
they say, 

"Two saints met often where those 
waters flow. 

One came from Penmon westward, and 
a glow 

Whiten'd his face from the sun's front- 
ing ray ; 

Eastward the other, from the dying day. 



And he with unsunn'd face did always 

go-'" 
Seiriol tlie Bright, Kybithe Dark! men 

said. 
The seer from the East was then in light. 
The seer from the West was then in 

shade. 
Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering 

sunshine bright 
The man of the bold West now comes 

array 'd ; 
He of the mystic East is touch'd with 

night. 1867. 

THE BETTER PART 

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of 

man. 
How angrily thou spurn'st all .simpler 

fare ! 
" Christ," some one saj^s, " was human 

as we are ; 
No judge ejes us from Heaven, our sin 

to scan ; 
We live no more, when we have done 

our span."' 
" Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, 

" wlio can care? 
From sin, which Heaven records not, 

why forbear? 
Live we like brutes our life without a 

plan ! " 
So answerest thou ; but why not rather 

say : 
"Hath man no second life? — Pitch this 

one high ! 
Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin 

to see ? — 
More strictly, then, the inward judge 

obey ! 
Was Christ a man like us ? Ah ! let us try 
If we then, too, can be such men as he ! " 

1867. 

IMMORTALITY 

Foil'd by our fellow-men, depressed, 

outworn. 
We leave the brutal world to take its 

way, 
And, Patience! in another life, we say, 
The world shall be thrust down, and we 

xtp-borne. 
And will not, then, the immortal armies 

scorn 
The world's poor, routed leavings? or 

will they. 
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's 

day, 



ARNOLD 



763 



Support the fervors of the heavenly 

morn ? 
No. no ! tlie energy of life may be 
Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
And he who flagg'd not in the earthl}' 

strife, 
From strength to strength advancing — 

only he, 
His soul well-knit, and all his battles 

won , 
Mounts, and that hardlj', to eternal life. 

1867. 

DOVER BEACH 

The sea is calm to-night, 

Tlie tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits ; — on the Frencli coast 

the light 
Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of Eng- 
land stand. 
Glimmering and vast, out in the tran- 
quil bay. 
Come to the window, sweet is the niglit- 

air I 
Only, from the long line of spray 
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd 

land , 
Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
Of pebbles wliicli the waves draw back, 

and fling. 
At their return, up the high strand, 
Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the JEgsean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery : we 

Find also in the sound a thought. 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round 

earth's sliore 
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle f url'd. 
But now I only liear 
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
Retreating, to tlie breath 
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges 

drear 
And naked shingles of the world. 
Ah, love, let us be true 
To one another I for the world, which 

seems 
To lie before us like a land of dreams. 
So various, so beautiful, so new. 
Hath really neither jov, nor love, nor 

light, . 



Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for 

pain : 
And we are here as on a darkling plain 
Swept with confvised alarms of struggle 

and flight. 
Where ignorant armies clasli by night. 

1867. 

GROWING OLD 

What is it to grow old ? 

Is it to lose the glory of the form. 

The lustre of the ej'e ? 

Is it for beauty to forego her wreath ? 

— Yes, but not this alone. 

Is it to feel our strength — 

Not our bloom only, but our strength — 

decaj' V 
Is it to feel each lindi 
Grow stifl'er, ever\- function less exact, 
Each nerve more loosely strung? 

Yes, this, and more : but not 

All, 't is not what in youth we dream'd 
't would be ! 

'T is not to have our life 

Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset- 
glow, 

A golden day's decline. 

"T is not to see the world 

As from a height, with rapt prophetic 

eyes. 
And heart profoundly stirr'd : 
And weep, and feel the ftilness of the 

past. 
The years that are no more. 

It is to spend long days 

And not once feel that we were ever 

young ; 
It is to add, immured 
In the liot prison of the present, month 
To month with weary pain. 

It is to suffer this. 

And feel but half, and feeblv, what we 

feel. 
Deep in our hidden heart 
Festers the dull remembrance of a 

change. 
But no emotion — none. 

It is — last stage of all — 

WJien we are frozen up within, and quite 

Tlie phantom of ourselves, 

To hear the world applaud the hollow 

ghost 
Which blamed the living man. 1867. 



764 



BRITISH POETS 



PIS-ALLER 

" Man is blind because of sin, 
Revelation makes him sure ; 
Without that, who looks within. 
Looks in vain, for all 's obscure." 

Nay, look closer into man ! 

Tell me, can you find indeed 

Nothing sure, no moral plan 

Clear prescribed, without your creed? 

" No, I nothing can perceive ! 
Without that, all 's dark for men. 
That, or nothing, I believe." — 
For God's sake, believe it then ! 

1867. 

THE LAST WORD 

Creep into tliy narrow bed. 
Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast. 
Thou thyself must break at last. 

Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, ami swans are geese. 
Let them have it how tliey will ! 
Thou art tired ; best be still. 

They out-talk'd thee, biss'd thee, tore 

thee ? 
Better men fared tlius befoi"e thee ; 
Fired their ringing shot and ]>ass"d, 
Hotly cliarged — and sank at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
Let the victors, wlien thev come, 
When the forts of foUv fall. 
Find thy body by the wall ! 1867. 

BACCHANALIA ; 

OR, 
THE NEW AGE 



The evening comes, the fields are still. 
The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 
Unlieard all day, ascends again ; 
Deserted is the half-mown plain. 
Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain. 
The mower's cr}-, the dog's alarms. 
All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
Tlie business of the day is done, 
The last-left haymaker is gone. 
And from tlie thj'me upon the height, 
And from the elder-blossom white 



And I ale dog-roses in the hedge. 

And Lorn the mint-plant in tlie sedge. 

In puffs of balm the night-air blows 

The perfume which the day foregoes. 

And on the pure horizon far. 

See. pulsing with the first-born star, 

The liquid sky above the hill ! 

The evening comes, the fields are still. 

Loitering and leaping. 

With saunter, with bounds — 

Flickering and circling 

In files and in rounds — 

Gaily their pine-staff green 

Tossing in air. 

Loose o'er their shoulders white 

Showering their hair — 

See ! the wild Ma3nads 

Break from the wood. 

Youth and lacchus 

Maddening their blood. 

See ! through the quiet land 

Rioting they pass — 

Fling the fresh heaps about, 

Trami>le the grass. 

Tear from the rifled hedge 

Garlands, their prize ; 

Fill with their sports the field. 

Fill with their cries. 

Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 

Shephei'd, why nuite? 

Forth with thy jovous song ! 

Forth with tliy flute ! 

Tempts not the revel blithe ? 

Lure not their cries? 

(tIow not their slumlders smooth? 

Melt not their eyes ? 

Is not, on cheeks like those, 

Lovely the flush ? 

— Ah, so the quiet was ! 

So loas the liusli ! 



The epoch ends, the Avorld is still. 
The age has talkM and vvorkd its fill — 
The famous orators have shone. 
The famous poets sung and gone. 
The famous men of war liave fought, 
The famous speculators thought, 
The famous players, sculptors, wrought. 
The famous painters fill'd their wall. 
The famous critics judged it ;dl. 
The combatants are parted now — 
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. 
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 
And in the after-silence sweet. 
Now strifes are hush"d, our ears doth 
meet. 



ARNOLD 



765 



Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 

Of this or that down-trodden name, 

Delicate spirits, push'd away 

In the hot pi-ess of the noon-da3\ 

And o'er the plain, where the dead age 

Did its now silent warfare wage — 

O'er that wide plain, now wiapt in 

gloom, 
Whei'e many a splendor finds its tomb, 
Many spent fames and fallen mights — 
Tlie one or two immortal liglits 
Rise slowly up into the sky 
To shine there everlastingly, 
Like stars over the bounding hill. 
The epoch ends, the world is still. 

Tiiundering and bursting 

111 torrents, in waves — 

Carolling and shouting 

Over tombs, amid graves — 

See ! on the cumber 'd plain 

Clearing a stage, 

Scattering the past about, 

Comes the new age. 

Bards make new poems, 

Tiiinkers new schools. 

Statesmen new systems, 

Critics new rules. 

All tilings begin again ; 

Life is their prize ; 

Eartii with their deeds they fill, 

Fill with their cries. 

Poet, what ails thee, then? 

Say, why so mute ? 

Forth with thy praising voice ! 

Forth with thy flute ! 

Loiterer ! why sittest thou 

Sunk in thy dream ? 

Tempts not the bright new age ? 

Shines not its stream ? 

Look, ah, what genius, 

Art, science, wit ! 

Soldiers like Ctesar, 

Statesmen like Pitt ! 

Sculptors like Phidias, 

Raphaels in shoals, 

Poets like Shakespeare — 

Beautiful souls ! 

See, on their glowing cheeks 

Heavenly the flush ! 

— All, so the silence was ! 

So was the hush ! 

Tlie world but feels the present's spell, 
Tlie poet feels the past as well ; 
Whatever men have done, might do, 
Whatever thought, might tlunk it too. 

1867. 



PALLADIUM 

Set where the upper streams of Simois 

flow 
Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and 

wood ; 
And Hector was in Ilium, far below, 
And fought, and saw it not — but there 

it stood ! 

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd 

their light 
On the pure columns of its glen-built 

hall, 
Backward and forward roU'd the waves 

of fight 
Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy 

could not fall. 

So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the 

soul. 
Mountains surround it and sweet virgin 

air ; 
Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters 

roll ; 
We visit it by motnents, ah, too rare ! 

We shall renew the battle in the plain 
To-morrow ; red with blood will Xanthus 

be; 
Hector and Ajax will be there again, 
Helen will come upon the wall to see. 

Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in 

strife. 
And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and 

blind despairs. 
And fancy that we put forth all our life. 
And never know how with the soul it 

fares. 

Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness 

high, 
Upon our life a ruling effluence send. 
And when it fails, fight as we will, we 

die ; 
And while it lasts, we cannot wlioUy end. 

1867. 

A WISH 

I ASK not that my bed of death 
From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 
For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favor'd sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 
Tearless, when of my death he hears. 
Let those who will, if any, weep I 



766 



BRITISH POETS 



There are worse plagues on earth than 
tears. 

I ask but til at my deatli may find 
The Freedom to my life denied ; 
Ask but the folly of mankind 
Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
The friends wlio come, and gape, and go; 
The ceremonious air of gloom- 
All, which makes death a hideous show ! 

Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame. 
To shake his sapient head, and give 
The ill he cannot cure a name. 

Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death. 
His brother-doctor of the soul, 
To canvass with official breath 

The future and its viewless things — 

That undiscover'd mystery 

Whicli one who feels deatli's winnowing 

wings 
Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 

Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
While all around in silence lies. 
Moved to the window near, and see 
Once more, before my dying eyes. 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
Tlie wide aerial landscape spread — 
The world which was ere I was born. 
The world which lasts when I am dead ; 

Which never was the friend of one. 
Nor promised love it could not give, 
But lit for all its generous sun. 
And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
To feel the universe my home ; 
To have befoi-e my mind — instead 

Of the sick room, the mortal strife, 
The turmoil for a little breath — 
The pure eternal course of life. 
Not human combatiugs with death ! 

Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear ; 
Then willing let my spirit go 
To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 

1867. 



RUGBY CHAPEL 

November 1857 

Coldly, sadly descends 

The autumn-evening. The field 

Strewn witli its dank yellow drifts 

Of wither'd leaves, and the ehns, 

Fade into dimness apace, 

Silent ; — hardly a shout 

From a few boys late at tlieir ])lay ! 

The lights come out in the street. 

In the school-room windows ; — but cold. 

Solemn, unlighted. austere, 

Through tlie gathering darkness, arise 

The chapel-walls, in wliose bound 

Thou, my father ! art laid. 

There thou dost lie, in the gloom 

Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 

That word, gloom, to my mind 

Brings thee back, in the liglit 

Of thy radiant vigor, again ; 

In the gloom of November we pass'd 

Days not dark at thy side ; 

Seasons impaii''d not tlie ray 

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 

Such thou wast ! and I stand 

In the autumn evening and think 

Of bygone autumns witli thee. 

Fifteen years have gone round 
Since thou arosest to tread. 
In the summer-morning, tlie road 
Of deatli, at a call unforeseen, 
Sudden. For fifteen years. 
We who till then in thy shade 
Rested as under the bouglis 
Of a mighty oak, have endured 
Sunshine and rain as we might, 
Bare, unshaded, alone. 
Lacking the shelter of thee. 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now ? For that force. 
Surely, has not been left vain ! 
Somewhere, surelj', afar. 
In the sounding labor-house vast 
Of being, is practised that sLrength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 

Conscious or not of the past. 

Still thou performest the word 

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — 

Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 

Still thou upraisest with zeal 

The humble good from the ground, 

Sternly repressest the bad ! 

Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 



ARNOLD 



767 



Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-laud dim 
Twixt vice and virtue : reviv'st, 
Succorest ! — this was thy work ; 
This was thy life upon earth. 

What is the course of the life 

Of mortal men on the earth ? — 

Most men eddy about 

Here and there — eat and drink, 

Chatter and love and hate. 

Gather and squander, are raised 

Aloft, are liurl'd in the dust, 

Striving blindly, achieving 

Nothing ; and then they die — 

Perish ; — and no one asks 

Who or what they have been. 

More than he aslcs wliat waves, 

In the moonlit solitudes mild 

Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 

Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 

And there are some, whom a tliirst 

Ardent, unquenchable, fires. 

Not with the crowd to l)e spent, 

Not without aim to go round 

In an eddy of purposelests dust, 

Effort unmeaning and vain. 

Ah yes ! some of us strive 

Not without action to die 

Fruitless, but something to snatch 

From dull oblivion, nor all 

Glut the devouring grave ! 

We, we have chosen our path — 

Path to a clear-purposed goal. 

Path of advance ! — but it leads 

A long, steep journey, through sunk 

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 

Then on the height, comes the storm. 

Thunder crashes from rock 

To rock, the cataracts reply, 

Lightnings dazzle our eyes. 

Roaring torrents have breach'd 

The track, the stream-bed descends 

In the place where the wayfarer once 

Planted his footstep — the spray 

Boils o'er its borders ! aloft 

The unseen snow-beds dislodge 

Their hanging ruin ; alas. 

Havoc is made in our train ! 

Friends who set forth at our side. 

Falter, are lost in the storm. 

We, we only are left ! 

With frowning foreheads, with lips 

Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 

On — and at nightfall at last 

Come to the end of our way. 

To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; 



Where the gaunt and taciturn host 
Stands on the threshold, the wind 
Shaking his thin white hairs — 
Holds his lantern to scan 
Our storm-beat figures, and asks : 
Whom in our party we bring ? 
Whom we have left in the snow ? 

Sadly we answer : We bring 
Only ourselves ! we lost 
Sight of the rest in the storm. 
Hardh' ourselves we fought through, 
Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
Friends, companions, and train, 
The avalanche swept from our side. 

But thou would'st not alone 
Be saved, my father ! alone 
Conquer and come to thy goal, 
Leaving the rest in the wild. 
We were weary, and we 
Fearful, and we in our march 
Fain to drop down and to die. 
Still thou turnedst, and still 
Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
Gavest the weary thy hand. 

If, in the paths of the world. 

Stones might have wounded thy feet. 

Toil or dejection have trieil 

Tliy spirit, of that we saw 

Nothing — to us thou wast still 

Cheerful, and helpful, and firm ! 

Tlierefore to thee it was given 

Many to save with thyself ; 

And, at the end of thy day, 

O faithful shepherd ! to come. 

Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 

And through thee I believe 

In the noble and great who are gone ; 

Pure souls honor'd and blest 

By former ages, who else — 

Such, so soulless, so poor, 

Is the race of men whom I see — 

Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 

Seem'd but a cry of desire. 

Yes ! I believe that there lived 

Others like thee in the past. 

Not like the men of the crowd 

Who all round me to-day 

Bluster or cringe, and make life 

Hideous, and arid, and vile ; 

But souls temper'd with fire, 

Fervent, heroic, and good. 

Helpers and friends of mankind. 

Servants of God ! — or sons 
Shall I not call j^ou? because 
Not as servants ye knew 
Your Father's innermost mind. 



768 



BRITISH POETS 



His, who unwillingly sees 
One of his little ones lost — 
Yours is the praise, if mankind 
Hath not as yet in its march 
Fainted, and fallen, and died I 

See ! In the rocks of tlie world 
Marches the liost of mankind, 
A feeble, wavering line. 
Wliere are tliey tending ? — A God 
Marsliaird them, gave them their goal. 
Ah, but tlie way is so long ! 
Years tliey liave been in the wild ! 
Sore tliirst plagues tlieni, the rocks, 
Rising all round, overawe ; 
Factions divide them, their host 
Threatens to break, to dissolve. 
— Ah, keep, keep tliem combined ! 
Else, of the myriads who fill 
That army, not one shall arrive ; 
Sole tliey shall stray ; in the rocks 
Stagger for ever in vain. 
Die one by one in the waste. 

Then, in such hour of need 

Of your fainting, dispirited race, 

Ye, like angels, appear, 

Radiant with ardor divine ! 

Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 

Languor is not in your heart. 

Weakness is not in your word, 

Weariness not on your brow. 

Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 

Panic, despair, flee away. 

Ye move through the ranks, recall 

The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 

Praise, re-insi^ire the brave ! 

Order, courage, return ; 

Eyes rekindling, and prayers. 

Follow your steps as j'e go. 

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 

Strengthen the wavering line, 

Stablish, continue our march. 

On, to the bound of the waste. 

On, to the City of God. 1867. 

HEINE 

(from HEINE'S GRAVE) 

The Spirit of the world. 
Beholding tlie absurdity of men— 
Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic 

smile, 
For one short moment, wander o'er liis 

lips. 
That smile ivas Hehie ! — for its earthly 

hour 
Tlie strange guest sparkle.d ; now 'tis 

pass'd away. 



That was Heine 1 and we. 
Myriads wlio live, who have lived, 
What are we all, but a mood, 
A single mood, of the life 
Of the Spirit in whom we exist. 
Who alone is all things in one ? 
Spirit, who fiilest us all ! 
Spirit, who utterest in each 
New-coming son of mankind 
Such of thy thoughts as thoii wilt ! 

thou, one of whose moods. 
Bitter and strange, was the life 
Of Heine — his strange, alas, 
His bitter life ! — may a life 
Other and milder be mine ! 
May'st thou a mood more serene, 
Happier, have utter'd in mine ! 
May'st thou the rapture of peace 
Deep have embreatlied at its core ; 
Made it a ray of thv thought, 

Made it a beat of thy joy ! 1867. 

OBERMANN ONCE MORE 

Savez-vous quelque bieti qui console dn regret 
d^un monde ? Obermann. 

Glion ? Ah, twenty years, it cuts i 

All meaning from a name ! 

White houses prank where once were 

huts. 
Glion, but not the same ! 

And 3^et I know not ! All unchanged 
The turf, the pines, the sky ! 
The hills in their old order ranged ; 
The lake, with Chillon by ! 

And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where 

stiff 
And stony mounts the way. 
The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if 

1 left them yesterday ! 

Across the valley, on that sloi^e, 
The huts of Avant shine ! 
Its pines, under their branches, ope 
Ways for the pasturing kine. 

Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 
Sweet heaps of fresli-eut grass, 
Invite to rest the traveller there 
Before he climb the pass — 

1 Probably all who know the Vevey end of the 
Lake of Geiieva, will recollect Glion, the moun- 
tain-village above the castle of Chillou. Glion 
now has hotels, liensions, and villas ; but twenty 
years ago it was hardly more than the huts of 
Avant opposite to it, — huts through which goes 
that beautiful path over the Col de Jamau, fol- 
lowed by so many foot-travellers on their way 
from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun. 

(^Arnold). 



ARNOLD 



769 



Tlie gentian-flovver'd pass, its crown 
With yellow spires aflame ; 
Whence drops tlie path to Allieredown, 
And walls where Byron came.^ 

By their green river, who doth change 

His birth-name just below ; 

Orchard, and croft, and full-stored 

grange 
Nursed by his pastoral flow. 

But stop ! — to fetch back thoughts that 

stray 
Beyond this gracious bound, 
The cone of Jaman, pale and gray. 
See, in the blue profound I 

Ah, Jaman ! delicately tall 

Above his sun-warm'd firs — 

What thoughts to me his rocks recall, 

What memories he stirs ! 

And who but thou must be, in truth, 
Obermann ! with me here ? 
Thou master of my wandering youth, 
But left this many a year ! 

Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, 
Its warfare waged with pain ; 
An eremite with thee, in thought 
Once more I slip my chain, 

And to thy mountain-chalet come. 
And lie beside its door, 
And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, 
And thy sad, tranquil lore ! 

Again I feel the words inspire 
Their mournful calm ; serene. 
Yet tinged with infinite desire 
For all that might have been — 

The harmony from which man swerved 
Made his life's rule once more ! 
The universal order served, 
Earth happier than before ! 

— While thus I mused, night gently ran 
Down over liill and wood. 
Then, still and sudden, Obermann 
On the grass near me stood. 

Those pensive features well I knew, 
On my mind, years before. 
Imaged so oft ! imaged so true ! 
— A shepherd's garb he wore, 

* Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Worlcs, 
vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saaue becomes the Sa- 
rine below Montbovon. {Arnold). 

49 



A mountain-flower was in his hand, 

A book was in his bi'east. 

Bent on my face, with gaze which 

scann'd 
My soul, his eyes did rest. 

" And is it thou," he cried, " so long 
Held by the world which we 
Loved not, who turnest from the throng 
Back to thy youth and me ? 

" And from thy world, with heart op- 

prest, 
Choosest thou note to turn ? — 
Ah me ! we anchorites read things best. 
Clearest their course discern ! 

" Thou fledst me when the ungenial 

earth, 
Man's work-place, lay in gloom. 
Retvirn'st thou in her hour of birth. 
Of hopes and hearts in bloom ? 

" Perceiv'st thou not the change of day ? 
Ah ! Carry back thy ken, 
What, some two thousand years ! Sur- 
vey 
The world as it was then ! 

" Like ours it look'd in outward air. 
Its head was clear and true. 
Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare. 
No pause its action knew ; 

" Stout was its arm, each thew and bone 
Seem'd puissant and alive — 
But, all ! its heart, its heai't was stone. 
And so it could not thrive ! 

" On that hard Pagan world disgust 
And secret loathing fell. 
Deep weariness and sated lust 
Made human life a hell. 

" In his cool hall, with haggard eyes. 
The Roman noble lay ; 
He drove abroad, in furious guise. 
Along the Appian way. 

" He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, 
And crown'd his hair with flowers — 
No easier nor no quicker pass'd 
The impracticable hours. 

" The brooding East with awe beheld 
Her impious younger world. 
The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, 
And on her head was hurl'd. 



77° 



BRITISH POETS 



"The East bow'd low before the blast 
In patient, deep disdain ; 
She let the legions thunder past, 
And plunged in thought again. 

" So well she mused, a morning broke 
Across her spirit gray ; 
A conquei'ing, new-born joy awoke, 
And fiU'd her life with day. 

" ' Poor world,' she cried, ' so deep ac- 
curst, 
That runn'st from pole to pole 
To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — 
Go, seek it in tliy soul ! ' 

" She heard it, the victorious West, 
In crown and sword array'd ! 
She felt the void whicli mined her breast, 
She shiver'd and obej^'d. 

" She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her 

sword. 
And laid lier sceptre down ; 
Her stately purple slie abhorr'd. 
And her imperial crown. 

" She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her 

sports, 
Her artists could not please ; 
She tore her books, she shut her courts, 
She fled her palaces ; 

" Lust of the eye and pride of life 
Slie left it all beliind. 
And hurried, torn with inward strife, 
Tlie wilderness to find. 

" Tears wash'd the trouble from her face! 

She changed into a child ! 

'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood— a 

place 
Of ruin — but she smiled ! 

"Oil, had I lived in that great day. 

How had its glory new 

Fill'd earth an(l heaven, and caught 

away 
My ravish'd spirit too ! 

" No tlioughts that to the world belong 
Had stood against the wave 
Of love which set so deep and strong 
From Christ's then open grave. 

" No cloister-floor of humid stone 
Had been too cold for me. 
For me no Eastern desert lone 
Had been too fat to flee. 



" No lonely life had pass'd too slow, 
Wlien I could hourly scan 
Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, 
That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man ! 

" Could see the Mother with her Child 
Whose tender winjiing aits 
Have to his little arms beguiled 
So many wounded hearts ! 

• ' And centuries came and ran their 

course. 
And unspent all that time 
Still, still went forth that Child's dear 

force. 
And still was at its prime. 

" Ay, ages long endured his span 

Of life — 'tis true received — 

That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd 

Man ! 
— He lived while we believed. 

" While we believed, on earth he went. 

And open stood his grave. 

Men call'd from chamber, church, and 

tent ; 
And Christ was by to save. 

" Now he is dead ! Far hence he lies 
In the lorn Syrian town ; 
And on his grave, with shining eyes, 
The Syrian stars look down. 

" In vain men still, with hoping new. 
Regard his death-place dumb, 
And say the stone is not yet to. 
And wait for words to come. 

" Ah, o'er that silent sacred land, 
Of sun, and arid stone. 
And crumbling wall, and sultry sand. 
Sounds now one word alone ! 

" Unduped of fancy, henceforth man 
Must labor ! — must resign 
His all too human creeds and scan 
Simphj the ivay divine ! 

" But slow that tide of common thought, 
Which bathed our life, retired ; 
Slow, slow the old world wore to nought. 
And pulse by pulse expired. 

" Its frame yet stood without a breach 
When blood and warmth were fled ; 
And still it spake its wonted speech — 
But every word was dead'. 



ARNOLD 



771 



" And oh. we cried, tliat on this corse 
Migiit fall a freshening- storm ! 
Rive its dry bones, and willi new force 
A new-sprung world inform ! 

" — Down came the storm ! O'er France 

it pass'd 
In sheets of scathing fire ; 
All Europe felt that fiery blast, 
Anil shook as it rusli'd by her. 

" Down came the storm ! In ruins fell 
Tlie worn-out world we knew. 
— It pass'd, that elemental swell ! 
Again appear 'd the blue ; 

"Tlie sun shone in the new-wash'd sky, 
And what from heaven saw he ? 
Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, 
Float on a rolling sea ! 

" Upon them plies the race of man 
All it before endeavor'd ; 
' Ye live,' I cried, ' ye work and plan. 
And know not ye are sever 'd ! 

" ' Poor fragments of a broken world 
Whereon men pitch their tent ! 
Why were ye too to death not liurl'd 
When your world's day was spent ? 

" ' That glow of central fire is done 
Which with its fusing flame 
Knit all your parts, and kept you one-^ 
But ye, ye are tlie same ! 

" * The past, its mask of union on. 
Had ceased to live and thrive. 
The past, its mask of union gone, 
Say, is it more alive ? 

" ' Your creeds are dead, your rites are 

dead, 
Your social order too ! 
Where tarries he, the Power who said : 
See, I make all tilings new 9 

" 'The millions suffer still, and grieve. 
And what can helpers heal 
With old-world cures men half believe 
For woes they wholly feel ? 

" ' And yet men have .such need of joy ! 
But joy whose grounds are true ; 
And joy that should all hearts employ 
As when the past was new. 

" ' Ah, not the emotion of that past. 
Its common hope, were vain ! 
Some new such hope must dawn at last, 
Or man must toss in pain. 



'* • But now tlie old is out of date, 
Tiie new is not yet born. 
And who can be alone elate, 
While the world lies forlorn ? ' 

'■ Then to the wilderness I fled. — 
There among Alpine snows 
And pastoral huts I hid my head. 
And sought and found repose. 

" It was not yet the appointed horu". 
Sad, patient, and resign'd, 
I watch'd the croinis fade and flower, 
I felt the sun and wind. 

" Tlie day I lived in was not mine, 
Man gets no second day. 
In dreams I saw the future shine — 
But ah ! I could not stay ! 

" Action I had not. followers, fame ; 
I pass'd obscure, alone. 
The after-world forgets my name, 
Nor do I wish it known. 

" Composed to bear. I lived and died. 
And knew my life was vain. 
With fate I murmur not, nor chide. 
At Sevres by the Seine 

'• (If Paris that brief flight allow) 
My humble tomb explore ! 
It bears : Eternity, he thou 
My refuge ! and no more. 

" But thou, whom fellowship of mood 
Did make from haunts of strife 
Come to my mountain-solitude. 
And learn my frustrate life ; 

" O thou, who, ere thy flying span 
Was past of ciieerful youth. 
Didst find the solitary man 
And love his cheerless truth — 

" Despair not thou as I despair'd. 
Nor be cold gloom thy prison ! ■ 
Forward the gracious hours have fared, 
And see ! the sun is risen ! 

" He breaks the winter of the past ; 
A green, new earth appears. 
Millions, whose life in ice lay fast. 
Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 

" Wliat though there still need effort, 

strife ? 
Though nuich be still uTiwon ? 
Yet w;irm it movuits. the hour of life ! 
Death's frozen hour is done ! 



772 



BRITISH POETS 



"The world's great order dawns in 

sheen, 
After long darkness rude, 
Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, 
With happier zeal pursued. 

" With hope extinct and brow composed 
I mark'd the present die ; 
Its term of life was nearly closed, 
Yet it had more than I. 

" But thou, though to the world's new 

hour 
Thou come with aspect marr'd, 
Sliorn of the joy, the bloom, tlie power 
Which best befits its bard — 

' ' Though more than half thy years be 

past, 
And spent thy youthful prime ; 
Though, round thy firmer manhood cast 
Hang weeds of our sad time 

" Whereof thy youth felt all the spell. 

And traversed all the shade — 

Though late, though dimm'd, though 

weak, yet tell 
Hope to a woi-ld new-made ! 

" Help it to fill that deep desire. 
The want which rack'd our brain. 
Consumed our heart with thirst like fire, 
Immedicable pain ; 

'* Which to the wilderness drove out 
Our life, to Alpine snow, 



And palsied all our word with doubt, 
And all our work with woe — 

" What still of strength is left, employ, 
This end to help attain : 
One common wave of thought and joy 
Lifting mankind again ! " 

— The vision ended. I awoke 

As out of sleep, and no 

Voice moved ;— only the torrent broke 

The silence, far below. 

Soft darkness on the turf did lie. 
Solemn, o'er hvit and wood. 
In the yet star-sown nightly sky. 
The peak of Jaman stood. 

Still in my soul the voice I heard 

Of Obermann ! away 

I turn'd ; by some vague impulse .stirr'd, 
Along the rocks of Naye 

Past Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze 
And the blanch'd summit bare 
Of Malatrait, to where in haze 
The Valais opens fair, 

And the domed Velan, with his snows. 
Behind the upcrowding hills, 
Doth all the heavenly opening close 
Which the Rhone's murmur fills ; — 

And glorious there, without a sound, 
Across the glimmering lake. 
High in the Valais-depth profound, 
I saw the morning break. 1867. 



ROSSETTI 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

* Collected Works, with Preface and Notes by W. M. Rossetti, 2 vol- 
umes, Ellis tfcEIvey, London (The standard edition ; issued in America by 
Roberts Bros.) Poems, Siddal Edition, 7 volumes, 1900-1901. Poems, 
Handy Volume Edition, 2 volumes, Little, Brown & Co. Family Letters, 
editecl with Memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 1895. Letters to William Ailing- 
ham, 1854-1870, edited by G. B. Hill, 1897. For other Letters, Journals, 
etc., see the first three titles below. 

Biography axd Reminiscences 

* Rossetti (W. M.), Ruskin, Rossetti, and Pre-Raphaelitism, 1899 ; 
Pre-Raphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1900 ; Rossetti Papers 1862-1870, a 
Compilation, 1903. (These three books bring the story of Rossetti's life, 
and the publication of his papers, down to 1870.) Caine (T. XL), Recol- 
lections of Rossetti, 1882. Stephens (F. G.), Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
(dealing with Rossetti chiefly as a painter). Sharp (W.), Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti : a Record and Study, 1882. Nicholson (P. W.), Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti, Poet and Painter, 188G. * Knight (Joseph), Life of Dante 
Gabriel Rossetti (Great Writers Series), 1887. Wood (Esther), Dante 
Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, 1894. Cary (E. L.), The 
Rossettis, 1900. Marillier (H. C), Record of Rossetti, 1901. Benson 
(A. C), Rossetti (English Men of Letters Series), 1904. See also J. H. 
Ingram's Life of Oliver Madox Brown ; Anne Gilchrist : Her Life and 
Writings; and Percy H. Bate's History of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement. 

Criticism 

Buchanan (R.), The Fleshly School of Poetry, and other Phenomena 
of the Day, 1872 (originally in the Contemporary Review, October, 1871). 
Rossetti (D. G.), The Stealthy School of Criticism (originally in tlie 
Athenaeum, December 16, 1871 ; now in his Collected Works). Hamilton 
(W.), The ^Esthetic Movement in England, 1882 (also contains an answer 
to Buchanan's attack). Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. 
FoRMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * Mabie (H. W), Essays in Literary 
Interpretation. * Myers (F. W. H.), Essays Modern : Rossetti and the 
Religion of Beauty. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese. ** Pater (W.), 
Appreciations. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Pat- 
more (C), Principle in Art. Sarrazin (G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angle- 
terre. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit. Sharp (A.), Victorian Poets. 
* Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. ** Swinburne, Essays and Studies. 

i^ . 773 







. o 



ROSSETTI 



MY SISTER'S SLEEP 

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 
At length the long-ungranted shade 
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd 

The i)ain nought else might yet relieve. 

Our mother, who had leaned all day 
Over the bed from chime to chiuie, 
Then raised herself for the first time, 

And as she sat her down, did pray. 

Her little work-table was spread 
With work to finish. For the glare 
Made bv her candle, siie liad care 

To work some distance from the bed. 

Without, there was a cold moon up. 
Of winter radiance slieer and thin ; 
Tlie hollow lialo it was in 

Was like an icy crystal cup. 

Through the small room, with subtle 
sound 
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove 
And reddened. In its dim alcove 

The mirror shed a clearness round. 

I had been sitting up some nights, 

And my tired mind felt weak and 

blank ; 
Like a sharp strengthening wine it 
drank 
The stillness and the broken lights. 

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwin- 
dling years 
Heard in each hour, crejit off ; and 

then 
The ruffled silence spread again. 
Like water that a pebble stirs. 

Our mother rose from where she sat : 
Her needles, as she laid them down, 
Met lightly, and her silken gown 

Settled : no other noise than that. 

" Glory unto the Newly Born ! " 
So, as said angels, she did say ; 



Because we were in Christmas Day, 
Though it would still be long till morn. 

Just then in the room over us 

Tiiere was a pushing back of chairs, 
As some who had sat unawares 

So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 

AVitli anxious softly-stepping haste 
Our mother went where Margaret lay, 
Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should 
they 

Have broken her long watched-for rest ! 

Slie stooped an instant, calm, and 
turned ; 
But suddenly turned back again : 
And all her features seemed in pain 
With woe, and her eyes gazed and 
yearned. 

For mv part. I but hid mj^ face. 

And held mj-^ breath, and spoke no 

word : 
There was none spoken ; but I heard 

The silence for a little space. 

Our mother bowed herself and wept : 
And both my arms fell, and I said, 
"God knows I knew that she was 
dead." 

And there, all white, my sister slept. 

Tlien kneeling, upon Christmas moi'n 
A little after twelve oV-lock 
AVe said, ere tlie first quarter struck, 

" Cluist's blessing on the newlv born ! " 
IS47' 1850. 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven ; 

Her eyes were deej^er than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even ; 

She had three lilies in her hand. 

And tlie star's in her hair were seven. 



Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn. 



774 



A 



'f^(^- 



r 



ROSSETTI 



775 



\ 



But a white rose of Maiy's gift, 

For service meetly worn ; 
Her hair that lay along her back 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From tliat still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That slie was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, tliat looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath the tides of daj^ and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 
'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 

Spoke evermore among themselves 
Their heart-remembered names ; 

And the souls mounting up to God 
Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along lier bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 
Time like a pulse shake fierce 

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still 
strove 
Within the gulf to pierce 

Its path ; and now she spoke as when 
The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curled naoon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 

She spoke through the still weatlier. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 



(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's 
song. 

Strove not her accents there. 
Fain to be barkened ? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air. 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair ?) 

" I wish that he were come to me. 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on 
earth. 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
Are not two pra.yers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid ? 

" When round his head the aureole 
clings. 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go witli him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

"We two will stand beside that shrine, 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 
Wiiose lamps are stirred continually 

Witli prayer sent up to God : 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within wiiose secret growth tlie Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

" And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, Ij^ing so. 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in. huslied and slow. 
And find some knowledge ateacli pause, 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas ! We two, we two. thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
Tliat once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee ?) 

"We two," she said, "will seek the 
groves 
AVhere the lady Mary is, 
Witli her five handmaidens, whose 
names 
Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 
Margaret and Rosalys. 



776 



BRITISH POETS 



" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

" He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, »nd let me speak. 

" Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered 
heads 
Bowed with their aureoles : 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for liim and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love, only to be, 

As then awliile. for ever now. 
Together, I and lie." 

She gazed and listened and then said. 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

" All this is when he comes." She 
ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, fiU'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres : 

And then she cast lier arms along 
The golden barriers. 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

ISJtl. 1850. 

AUTUMN SONG 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering ; 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 
In Autumn at the fall of tlie leaf ? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 
Knowest thou not ? and how the chief 

Of joys seems — not to suffer pain ? 



Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 
Bound up at lengtli for harvesting. 
And how death seems a comely thing 
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf ? 

1884.1 

THE PORTRAIT 

This is her pictui'e as she was : 

It seems a thing to wonder on, 
As though mine image in the glass 

Sliould tarry when myself am gone. 
I gaze until she seems to stir, — 
Until mine eyes almost aver 

That now, even now, the sweet lips 
part 

To breathe the words of the sweet 
lieart : — 
And yet the earth is over her. 

Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray 
That makes the prison-depths more 
rude, — 

The drip of water night and day 
Giving a tongue to solitude. 

Yet only this, of love's whole prize, 

Remains ; save what in mournful guise 
Takes counsel with my soul alone, — 
Save what is secret and unknown, 

Below the earth, above the skies. 

In painting lier I shrined lier face 

'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in 

Hardly at all ; a covert place 
Where you might think to find a din 

Of doubtful talk, and a live flame 

Wandering, and many a shape whose 
name 
Not itself knoweth, and old dew, 
And your own footsteps meeting you, 

And all things going as they came. 

A deep dim wood : and there she stands 

As in that wood that day : for so 
Was the still movement of her hands 

And such the pure line's gracious 
flow. 
And passing fair the type must seem, 
Unknown the presence and the dream. 

'T is she : though of herself, alas ! 

Less than her sliadow on the grass 
Or than her image in the stream. 

That day we met there, I and she 

One with the other all alone ; 
And we were blithe ; yet memory 

1 W. M. Rossetti classes this among the earliest 
poems, in date of writing. It was published as 
a song in 1884, and in the Poetical Works, 1886. 



ROSSETTI 



777 



Saddens those hours, as when the 
moon 
Looks upon daylight. And with her 
I stooped to drink the spring-svater, 

Athirst where other waters sprang ; 

And where the echo is, she sang, — 
My soul another echo there. 

But when that hour my soul won 
strength 

For words whose silence wastes and 
kills. 
Dull raindrops smote us, and at lejigth 

Thundered the heat within the hills. 
That eve I spoke those words again 
Beside the pelted window-pane ; 

And there she harkened what I said. 

With under-glances that surveyed 
The empty pastures blind with rain. 

Next day the memories of these things, 
Like leaves through which a bird has 
flown. 

Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; 
Till I must make them all my own 

And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease 

Of talk and sweet long silences. 
She stood among the plants in bloom 
At windows of a summer i-oom. 

To feign the shadow of the trees. 

And as I wrought, while all above 
And all around was fragrant air, 

In the sick burthen of my love 

It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom 
tliere 

Beat like a heart among the leaves. 

O heart that never beats nor lieaves, 
In that one darkness lying still. 
What now to thee my love's great will. 

Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? 

For now doth daylight disavow 

Those days, — nought left to see or hear. 
Only in solemn whispers now 

At night-time these things reach mine 
ear, 
When the leaf -shadows at a breath 
Shrink in the road, and all the heath. 

Forest and water, far and wide. 

In limpid starlight glorified. 
Lie like the mystery of death. 

Last night at last I could have slept. 

And yet delayed my sleep till dawn. 
Still wandering. Then it was I wept : 

For unawares I came upon 
Those glades where once she walked 
with me ; 



And as I stood there suddenlj% 
All wan with traversing the night, 
Upon the desolate verge of light 

Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. 

Even so, where Heaven holds breath and 
hears 

The beating heart of Love's own 
breast, — 
Where round the secret of all spheres 

All angels lay their wings to rest, — 
How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, 
When, by the new birth borne abroad 

Throughout the music of the suns, 

It enters in her soul at once 
And knows the silence there for God ! 

Here with her face doth memory sit 
Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, 

Till other eyes shall look from it. 
Eyes of the spirit's Palestine. 

Even than the old gaze tenderer : 

Wliile hopes and aims long lost with her 
Stand round her image side by side. 
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died 

About the Holy Sepulchre. 1S47. 1870. 

THE CARD-DEALER 

Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? 

Yet though its splendor swoon 
Into the silence languidly 

As a tune into a tune, 
Those eyes unravel the coiled night 

And know the stars at noon. 

The gold that's heaped beside her hand. 

In truth rich prize it were ; 
And rich the dreams that wreathe her 
brows 

With magic stillness there ; 
And he were rich who should unwind 

That woven golden hair. 

Around her, whei'e she sits, the dance 
Now breathes its eager heat ; 

And not more lightly or more true 
Fall there the dancers' feet 

Than fall her cards on the bright board 
As 'twere an heart that beat. 

Her fingers let them softly through, 
Smootii polished silent things ; 

And each one as it falls reflects 
In swift light-shadowiTigs, 

Blood-red and purple, green and blue. 
The great eyes of her rings. 

Whom plays she with ? With thee, 
who lov'st 



778 



BRITISH POETS 



Those gems upon her liand ; 
"With me, who searcli lier secret brows ; 

With all men, bless'd or banii'd. 
We play together, she and we, 

Within a vain strange land : 

A land without any order, — 

Day even as night, (one saith,) — 

Where who lieth down ariseth not 
Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 

A land of darkness as darkness itself 
And of the shadow of death. 

What be her cards, you ask ? Even 
these :■ — 

The heart, that doth but crave 
More, having fed ; the diamond, 

Skilled to make base seem lirave ; 
The club, for smiting in the dark ; 

Tiie spade, to dig a grave. 

And do you ask what game she plays? 

Witli me 'tis lost or won ; 
AVith thee it is playing still ; with him 

It is not well begun ; 
But 'tis a game she plays with all 

Beneath the sway o' the sun. 

Thou seest the card that falls, she knows 

The card that followeth : 
Her game in thj^ tongue is called Life, 

As ebbs thy daily breath : 
When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her 
tongue 

And know she calls it Death. 1870. 

AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848 

God said, Let there be light ! and there 

was light. 
Then heard we sounds as though the 

Earth did sing 
And the Earth's angel cried upon the 

wing : 
We saw priests fall together and turn 

white : 
And covered in the dust from the sun's 

sight, 
A king was spied, and yet another king. 
We said : "The round world keeps its 

balancing ; 
On this globe, they and we are opposite, — 
If it is day with us, with them "t is night. 
Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember 

this : 
Thou hadst not made that thy sons' 

sons sliall ask 
What tlie word king may mean in their 

day's task. 



But for the light that led : and if light is, 
It is because God said, Let there be 
light." 1S4S. 1886. 

ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN 
NATIONS 

Not that the earth is changing, O my 

God! 
Nor that the seasons totter in their 

walk, — 
Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 
Seethes ever as a winepi'ess ever trod, — 
Not tliereforeare we certain that the rod 
Weighs in thine hand to smite thy 

world ; though now 
Beneath thine hand so many nations 

bow, 
So many kings : — not therefore, O my 

God !— 
But because Man is parcelled out in men 
To-daj' ; because, for any wrongful blow, 
No man not stricken asks, " I would be 

told 
Why thou dost thus ; " but his heart 

whispers then, 
" He is he. I am I." By this we know. 
That the earth falls asunder, being old. 
1S4S or 1849. 1870. 

MARY'S GIRLHOOD 

{For a Picture) 



This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect 
God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, 

and she 
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. 
Unto God's will she brought devout 

respect. 
Profound simplicity of intellect. 
And supreme patience. From her 

mother's knee 
Faithful and hopeful ; wise in charity ; 
Strong in grave peace ; in pity circum- 
spect. 
So held she through her girlhood ; as it 

were 
An angel-watered lily, that near God 
Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at 

home 
She woke in her white bed, and had no 

fear 
At all. — yet wept till sunshine, and felt 

awed : 
Because the fulness of the time was 

come. 



ROSSETTI 



779 



These are the symbols. On that clotli 

of red 
I' the centre is the Tripoint : perfect each, 
Except the second of its points, to teach 
That Clirist is not yet born. The books 

— whose head 
Is golden Charity, as Paul hath said — 
Tliose virtues are wherein the soul is 

rich : 
Therefore on them the lily standeth, 

which 
Is Innocence, being interpreted. 
The seven-thorn "d briar and the palm 

seven-leaved 
Are her great sorrow and her great 

reward. 
Until the end be full, the Holy One 
Abides without. She soon shall have 

achieved 
Her perfect purity : yea, God the Lord 
Shall soon vouchsafe His Son to be her 

Son. IS^, 1S50. 1849, 1870. 

FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL 
By Giorgione 
{In the Louvre) 

Water, for anguish of the solstice : — 

nay. 
But dip the vessel, slowly, — nay, but 

lean 
And hark liow at its verge the wave 

sighs in 
Reluctant. Hush I Beyond all depth 

away 
The heat lies silent at the brink of day : 
Now the hand trails upon tlie viol-string 
That sobs, and the brown faces cease to 

sing. 
Sadwitli the wliole of pleasure. Whitlier 

stray 
Her eyes now, from wliose mouth the 

slim pipes creep 
And leave it pouting, while the shadowed 

grass 
Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — 
Say nothing now unto her lest she weep. 
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was. — 
Life touching lips with Immortality. 

1850. 

THE SEA-LIMITS 

Consider the sea's listless chime : 
Time's self it is, made audible, — 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 



Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
No furlong furtiier. Since time was, 

Tins sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life. 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath. 
Its painful pulse is in tlie sands. 
Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 

Gray and not known, along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea. 

Listen alone among the woods ; 

Tliose voices of twin solitudes 
Shall have one sound alike to tliee : 

Hark where the murmurs of thronged 
men 

Surge and sink back and surge again, — 
Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach 
And listen at its lips : they sigh 
The same desire and mystery. 

The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
And all mankind is thus at heai't 
Not anything but what thou art : 

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 

1850. 

THE MIRROR 

She knew it not, — most perfect pain 
To learn : this too she knew not. Strife 
For me, calm hers, as from the first. 
'T was but another bvibble burst 
Upon the curdling draught of life, — 
My silent patience mine again. 

As who, of forms that crowd unknown 
Within a distant mirror's shade, 
Deems such an one himself, and 

makes 
Some sign ; but when the image 
shakes 
No whit, he finds his thought betray'd. 
And must seek elsewhere for his own. 
1850. 1886. 

A YOUNG FIR-WOOD 

These little firs to-day are things 
To clasp into a giant's cap, 
Or fans to suit his lady's lap. 

From many winters many springs 
Shall cherish them in strength ajid sap, 
Till they be marked upon the map, 

A wood for the wind's wanderings. 



780 



BRITISH POETS 



All seed is in the sower's liauds : 

And what at first was trained to spread 
Its shelter for some single head, — 

Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — 
May hide the sunset, and the shade 
Of its great multitude be laid 

Upon the earth and ejder sands. 

November, 1S50. 1870. 

PENUMBRA 

I DID not look upon her eyes, 
(Thougli scarcely seen, with no surprise, 
'Mid many eyes a single look.) 
Because they should not gaze rebvike. 
At niglit, from stars in sky and brook. 

I did not take her by the hand, 
(Though little was to understand 
From touch of hand all friends might 

take,) 
Because it should not prove a flake 
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. 

I did not listen to lier voice, 
(Though none had note<i, where at clioice 
AH might rejoice in listening,) 
Because no such a tiling should cling 
In the wood's moan at evening. 

I did not cross her shadow once, 
(Tliough from the hollow west the sun's 
Last shadow runs along so far,) 
Because in Jime it should not laar 
My ways, at noon when fevei'S ai'e. 

Tliey told me she was sad that day, 
(Though wherefoi'e tell what love's sooth- 
say. 
Sooner than they, did register ?) 
And my heart leapt and wept to her. 
And yet I did not speak nor stir. 

So shall the tongues of the sea's foam 
(Tliough many voices therewith come 
From drouned hope's home to cry to 

me,) 
Bewail one hour the more, when sea 
And wind are one with memory. 1870. 

SISTER HELEN 

" Why did j'ou melt your waxen man, 

Sister Helen ? 
To-day is the third since you began." 
" The time was long, yet the time ran, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three daijs to-day, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 



" But if you have done your work aright, 

Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
" Be very still in your play to-night. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Third night, to-night, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, 

Sister Helen ; 
If now it be molten, all is well." 
" Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
O lohat is this, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 

" Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, 

Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropped 

away ! " 
" Nay now, of the dead what can you 
say. 

Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Wliat of the dead, between Hell and 
Heaven 9) 

" See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinned wax red as 

blood ! •' 
" Nay now, when looked you yet on 
blood, , 

Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hotv x"^^^ ^^^^ *'^' between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

"Now close your eyes, for they're sick 
and sore. 

Sister Helen, 
And I'll play without the gallery door." 
" Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, 
Little brother.'" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What rest to-night, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven f) 

'• Here high up in the balcony. 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 
" Aye, look and say whatever j'ou see. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother. Mary Mother, 
What sight to-night, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

" Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, 
Sister Helen ; 



ROSSETTl 



781 



In the shaken trees the chill stars 

shake." 
" Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you 
spake, 

Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Motlier. 
Wliat sound to-night, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven 9) 

" I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribl}-." 
" Little brother, whence come tlie three. 
Little bi-other V " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Wlience shoidd they come, betiveen Hell 
and Heaven ?) 

•'They come by the hill-verge from 
Boyne Bar, 

Sister Helen, 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
•'Look, look, do you know tliem who 
they are, 

Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Who shoidd they be, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

" Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast. 

Sister Helen, 
Fori know the white mane on the blast." 
" The hour has come, has come at last, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Her hour at last, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" He has made a sign and called Halloo! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that lie would speak with 

you." 
" Oil tell liim I fear the frozen dew, 
Little brother." 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Why laughs she thas, between Hell and 
Heaven /) 

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry. 

Sister Helen, 
That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
" And he and thou, and thou and I, 
Little brotiier." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
And they and tve, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven ! ) 

" Three days ago, on his marriage-morn. 

Sister Helen, 
He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 



' For bridegroom's side is the bride a 
thorn, 

Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and 
Heaven ! ) 

•'Three days and nights he has lain 
abed, 

Sister Helen, 
And he prays in torment to be dead." 
•• The thing may chance, if lie have 
prayed, 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
If he have prayed, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

'• But he has not ceased to cry to-day. 

Sister Helen, 
That you should take your cur.se away." 
••My prayer was heard, — he need but 
pray 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Shall God not hear, between Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

" But he says, till you take back your 
ban. 

Sister Helen, 
His soul would pass, yet never can." 
'• Nay then, shall I slay a living man, 
Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
A living soul, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) 

" But he calls for ever on your name, 

Sister Helen, 
And says that he melts before a flame." 
••Mylieart for his pleasure fared the 
same, 

Little brother. " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Fire at the heart, between Hell and 
Heaven ! ) 

•' Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white plume on the 

blast." 
" The hour, the sweet hour I forecast. 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is the hour sweet, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

"He .stops to speak, and he stills his 
horse. 

Sister Helen ; 



782 



BRITISH POETS 



But his words are drowned in the wind's 

course." 
" Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear 
perforce, 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mai-y Mother, 
What word now heard, between Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

" Oil he says that Keith of Ewern's crj"-, 

Sister Helen, 
Is ever to see you ere he die." 
" In all tliat his soul sees, there am I, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The souVs one sight, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" He sends a ring and a broken coin, 

Sister Helen, 
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 
" What else he broke will he ever join. 
Little brotlier ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
No, never joined, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" He yields you these and craves full fain. 

Sister Helen, 
You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
"■ Wliat else he took will he give again. 
Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Not ttvice to give, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" He calls your name in an agony, 
Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
" Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Love turned to hate, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides 
fast. 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white hair on the blast." 
" The short, short hour will soon be past, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Will soon be past, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" He looks at me and he tries to speak. 

Sister Helen, 
But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! " 
" What here should the mighty Baron 
seek, 



Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is this theend, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 

" Oh his son still cries, if j^ou forgive. 

Sister Helen, 
The body dies, but the soul shall live." 
" Fire shall foi'give me as I forgive. 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
As she forgives, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" Oh he prays you, as his lieart would 
rive. 

Sister Helen, 
To save his dear son's soul alive." 
" Fire cannot slay it. it shall thrive, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven !) 

" He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 

Sister Helen, 
To go with hini for the love of God ! " 
'■ The way is long to his son's abode, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The way is long, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 

Sister Helen, 
So darkly clad, I saw her not." 
" See her now or never see aught, 
Little brotlier ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What more to see, betiveen Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

" Her hood falls back, and the moon 
shines fair. 

Sister Helen. 
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." 
'* Blest hour of my power and her des^jair, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride 
did glow, 

Sister Helen, 
'Neath the bridal-wreath three da3'S ago." 
" One morn for pride and three days for 
woe. 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three days, three nights, between Hell 
and Heaven !) 



ROSSETTI 



783 



" Her clasped liands stretch from her 
bending liead, 

Sister Helen ; 
With tlie loud wind's wail her sobs are 

wed." 
" What wedding-strains hath her bridal- 
bed, 

Little brother ? " 
(O Mother, Marii Mother, 
Wliat strain bat death's, between Hell 
and Heaven f) 

" She may not speak, she sinks in a 
swoon. 

Sister Helen, 
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." 
" Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe 
tune, 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother. Mary Mother, 
Her looe's dumb cry, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

•' They've caught her to Westholm's 
saddle-bow, 

Sister Helen, 
And her moonlit hair gleams white in 

its flow." 
" Let it turn whiter than winter snow. 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother. Mary Mother, 
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 

Sister Helen ! 
More loud than the vesper-cliime it fell." 
" No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother. Mary Mother. 
His dying knell, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound. 

Sister Helen : 
Is it in the sky or in the ground ? " 
" Say, have they turned their horses 
round. 

Little brother?" 
(O Mother. Mary Mother, 
^Mlat would she more, between Hell and 
Heaven 9) 

"They have raised the old man from his 
knee, 

Sister Helen, 
And they ride in silence liastily." 
" More fast the naked soul doth flee, 
Little brother ! " 



(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The naked soul, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

"Flank to fiank are the three steeds 
gone, 

Sister Helen, 
But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 
" And lonely her bridegroom's .soul hath 
flown, 

Little brotlier." 
{O Mother, Mary Mother. 
The lonely ghost, bettveen Hell and 
Heaven !) 

' ' Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill. 

Sister Helen. 
And weary sad they look by the lull." 
" But he and I are sadder still. 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Most sad of all, between Hell and 
Heaven !) 

" See, see, the wax has dropped from its 
place. 

Sister Helen, 
And the flames are winning up apace ! " 
'• Yet here tliey burn but for a space. 
Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother 
Here for a space, between Hell ana 
Heaven !) 

•' Ah ! what white thing at tlie door has 
cross'd, 

Sister Helen ? 
Ah ! wliat is tliis that sighs in tlie frost ? " 
'■ A soul that's lost as mine is lost. 
Little brother ! " 
{O Mother. Mary Mother. 
Lost, lost, all lotit, between Hell and 
Heaven!) 1870. 

THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 

In our Museum galleries 

To-da}^ I lingered o'er tlie prize 

Dead Greece vouchsafes tolivingej^es, — 

Her Art foi- ever in fresh wise 

From hour to hour rejoicing me. 
Sighing I turned at last to win 
Once more the London dirt and din ; 
And as I made tlie swing-door spin 
And issued, they were hoisting in 

A winged beast from Nineveh. 

A human face the creature wore. 
And hoofs behind aiul hoofs before, 
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 



7^4 



BRITISH POETS 



'T was bull, 't was mitred Minotaur, 

A dead disbovvelled mystery ; 
The mummy of a buried faith 
Stark from tlie charnel without scathe, 
Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — 
Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
The very corpse of Nineveh. 

The print of its first rush-wrapping. 
Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the 

thing. 
What song did the brown maidens sing, 
From purple mouths alternating, 

When tliat was woven languidly ? 
What vows, what rites, what prayers 

preferr'd. 
What songs has the strange image 

heard ? 
In what blind vigil stood interr'd 
For ages, till an English word 
Broke silence first at Nineveh ? 

Oh when upon each sculptured court, 
Where even the wind might not re- 
sort, — 
O'er whicli Time passed, of like import 
With the wild Arab boys at sport, — 

A living face looked in to see : — 
Oh seemed it not — the spell once broke — 
As though the carven warriors woke. 
As though the shaft the string forsook, 
Tlie cymbals clashed, the chariots shook. 

And there was life in Nineveh ? 

On London stones our sun anew 
The beast's recovered shadow threw. 
(No shade that plague of darkness knew. 
No light, no shade, while older grew 

By ages the old earth and sea.) 
Lo thou ! could all thy priests have 

shown 
Such proof to make thy godhead known? 
From their dead Past thou liv'st alone 
And still thy shadow is thine own 

Even as of yoi"e in Nineveh. 

That day whereof we keep record. 
When near thy city-gates the Lord 
Sheltered his Jonah with a gourd, 
This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd 

Even thus this shadow that I see. 
This shadow has been shed the same 
From sun and moon, — from lamps which 

came 
For praj-er, — from fifteen days of flame, 
Tlie last, while smouldered to a name 

Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 

Within thy shadow, haply, once 
Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 



Smote him between the altar-stones : 
Or pale Semiramis her zones 

Of gold, her incense brought to thee, 
In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . 
Ay, and who else? . . . till 'neath thy 

shade 
Within his trenches newly made 
Last year the Christian knelt and 
pray'd — 

Not to thy strength — in Nineveh. 

Now, thou poor god, within this liall 
Where the blank windows blind the wall 
From pedestal to pedestal, 
The kind of light shall on thee fall 

Which London takes the day to be : 
While school-foundations in the act 
Of holiday, three files compact, 
Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
Connected with that zealous tract : 

"Rome, — Babylon and Nineveh." 

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, 
When, in some mythic chain of verse 
Which man shall not again rehearse. 
The faces of thy ministers 

Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy ? 
Greece, Egypt, Eome, — did any god 
Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
Deem that in this unblest abode 
Another scarce more unknown god 

Should house with him, from Nineveh? 

Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 
From which this pygmy pile has grown. 
Unto man's need how long unknown, 
Since thy vast temples, court and cone, 

Rose far in desert history ? 
Ah ! what is here that does not lie 
All strange to thine awakened eye ? 
Ah ! what is here can testify 
(Save that dumb presence of the sky) 

Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 

Why, of those mummies in the room 
Above, there might indeed have come 
One out of Egypt to thy home. 
An alien. Nay, but were not some 

Of these thine own " antiquity " ? 
And now, — the}^ and their gods and thou 
All relics here together, — now 
Whose profit ? whether bull or cow, 
Isis or Ibis, who or how, 

Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 

The consecrated metals found, 
And ivory tablets, underground. 
Winged teraphimand creatures crown'd 
When air and daylight filled the mound. 



ROSSETTI 



785 



Fell into dust immediately. 
And even as these, the images 
Of awe and worship, — even as these, — 
So, smitten with tlie sun's increase, 
Her glory mouldered and did cease 

From immemorial Nineveh. 

The day her builders made their lialt. 
Those cities of the lake of salt 
Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, 
Made prouti with pillars of basalt. 

With sardonyx and porphyry. 
The day tliat Jonah bore abroad 
To Nineveh the voice of God, 
A brackish lake lay in his road. 
Where erst Pride fixed her sui'e abode, 

As then in royal Nineveh. 

The day wlien he. Pride's lord and Man's, 
Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
To Him before whose countenance 
The years recede, the j^ears advance. 

And said, Fall down and worship me : — 
'Mid all the pomp beneath that look. 
Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke. 
Where to the wind tlie salt pools shook. 
And in those tracts, of life forsook. 

That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! 

Delicate harlot ! On thy throne 
Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
In state for ages sat'st alone ; 
And needs were years and lustres flown 

Ere strength of man could vanquish 
thee : 
Whom even thy victor foes must bring. 
Still royal, among maids that sing 
As with doves' voices, taboring 
Upon their breasts, unto the King, — 

A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! 

Here woke my thought. The 

wind's slow sway 
Had waxed ; and like the human play 
Of scorn that smiling spreads away, 
The sunshine shivered off the day ; 

The callous wind, it seemed to me, 
Swept up the shadow from the ground : 
And pale as whom the Fates astound, 
The god forlorn stood winged and 

crown'd ; 
Within I knew the cry lay bound 
Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 

And as I turned, my sense half shut 
Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 
Go past as marshalled to the strut 
Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 
It seemed in one same pageantry 

5° 



Tliey followed forms which had been 

erst ; 
To pass, till on my sight should burst 
That future of the best or worst 
When some may question which was 

first. 
Of London or of Nineveh. 

For as that Bull-god once did stand 
And watched the burial-clouds of sand, 
Till these at last without a hand 
Rose o'er his eyes, another land, 

And blinded him with destiny : — 
So may he stand again ; till now. 
In sliips of unknown sail and prow, 
Some tribe of the Australian plough 
Bear him afar, — a relic now 

Of London, not of Nineveh ! 

Or it may chance indeed that when 
Man's age is hoary among men, — 
His centuries threescore and ten, — 
His furthest cliildhood shall seem then 

More clear than later times may be : 
Wiio, finding in this desert place 
This form, shall hold us for some race 
That walked not in Christ's lowly ways. 
But bowed its pride and vowed its praise 

Unto the god of Nineveh. 

The smile rose first, — anon drew nigh 
The thought : . . . Those heavy wings 

spi-ead high 
So sure of flight, which do not fly ; 
That set gaze never on tlie sky ; 

Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; 
Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; 
Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . 
(So grew the image as I trod :) 
O Nineveh, was tliis thy God, — 

Thine also, mighty Nineveh? 1856. 

MARY MAGDALENE 

AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE 

{For a Drmving ^) 

" Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine 
hair ? 

Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, 
and cheek. 

Nay, not this house, — that banquet- 
house we seek ; 

See how they kiss and enter ; come thou 
there. 

' In the drawing Mary has left a festal proces- 
sion, and is ascending; by a sudden impulse the 
steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her 
lover has followed her and is trying to turn her 
back. 



786 



BRITISH POETS 



This delicate day of love we two will 

share 
Till at our ear love's whispering niglit 

shall speak. 
What, sweet one. — ^^hold'st thou still the 

foolish freak ? 
Nay, when I kiss tliy feet they '11 leave 

the stair.'" 
" Oh loose nie ! See'st thou not m}' 

Bridegroom's face 
That draws nie to Him? For His feet 

my kiss, 
My hair, my tears He craves to-day : — 

and oil ! 
What words can tell what other day and 

place 
Shall see me clasp those blood-stained 

feet of His ? 
He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me 



go ! " 1S56-7. 

ASPECTA MEDUSA 



1870. 



{For a Draiving) 

Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed. 
Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's 

head : 
Till o'er a foxmt he held it, bade her lean. 
And mirrored in the wave was safely 

seen 
Tliat deatli she lived by. 

Let not thine eyes know 
Any forbidden thing itself, althuugli 
It once should save as well as kill : but 

■ be 
Its shadow upon life enough for thee. 

1870. 

LOVE'S NOCTURN 

Master of tlie murmuring courts 

Wliere tlie sliapes of sleep convene ! — 

Lo ! my spirit here exhorts 
All the powers of thy demesne 
For their aid to woo my queen. 

What reports 
Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? 

Vaporous, unaccountable, 

Dreamland lies forloiui of light, 

Hollow like a breathing shell. 

Ah ! that from all dreams I might 
Choose one dream and guide its flight ! 

I know well 
What her sleep should tell to-night. 

There the dreams are multitudes : 
Some tliat will not wait for sleep. 

Deep witliin tlie August woods ; 
Some that hum while rest may steep 



Weary labor laid a-lieap ; 

Interludes, 
Some, of grievous moods that weep. 

Poets' fancies all are there : 

Tliere the elf-girls flood with wings 
Valleys full of plaintive air ; 
There breathe perfumes ; there in 

rings 
Whirl the foam -bewildered springs ; 

Siren there 
Winds her dizzy hair and sings. 

Thence the one dream mutually 

Dreamed in bridal unison, 
Less than waking ecstasy ; 

Half-formed visions tliat make moan 

In the house of birth alone ; 
And what we. 

At death's wicket, see, unknown. 

But for mine own sleep, it lies 

In one gracious form's control, 
Fair with honorable eyes, 

Lamps of a translucent soul ; 

O their glance is loftiest dole, 
Sweet and wise. 

Wherein Love descries his goal. 

Reft of her, my dreams are all 

Clammy trance that fears the sky : 
Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 

From polluted coverts nigh. 

Miserable phantoms sigh : 
Quakes the pall, 

And the funeral goes by. 

Master, is it soothly said 

That, as echoes of man's speech 
Far in secret clefts are made. 

So do all men's bodies reach 

Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — 
Shape or shade 

In those halls portrayed of each ? 

Ah ! might I. by thy good grace 

Groping in the windy stair, 
(Darkness and the breath of space, 

Like loud waters everywhere), 

Meeting mine own image there 
Face to face, 

Send it from that place to her ! 

Nay, not I : but oh ! do thou. 
Master, from thy shadow kind 

Call my bodj^'s phantom now : 
Bid it bear its face declin'd 
Till its flight her slumbers find, 

And her brow 
Feel its presence bow like wind. 



ROSSETTI 



787 



Wlieie ill groves Mie gracile Spring 

Trembles, with luule orison 
Coiifidentl}' strengtlieuiiig. 

Water's voice and winds as one 

Shed au echo in the sun. 
Soft as Spring, 

Master, bid it sing and moan. 

Song shall tell how glad and strong 

Is the nigiit slie soothes alvvaj' ; 
Moan shall grieve with that pai'clied 
tongue 
Of the brazen liours of daj' : 
Sounds as of the springtide they, 

Moan ;ind song. 
While the chill months long for Maj". 

Not the prayers which with all leave 

The world's fluent woes prefer, — 
Not the pi'aise the world doth give, 

Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — 

Let it yield my love to lier. 
And achieve 

Strength that shall not grieve or err. 

Wlieresoe'er my dreams befall. 

Both at night-watch (let it say), 
And wliere round the sun-dial 

The reluctant hours of day. 

Heartless, liopeless of their way. 
Rest and call ; 

Tiiere her glance doth fall and stay. 

Suddenly her face is there ; 

So do mounting vapors wreathe 
Subtle-scented transports wliere 

Tiie black fir-wood sets its teeth. 

Part the boughs and look beneath,— 
Lilies share 

Secret waters there, and breathe. 

Master, bid my shadow bend 

Whispering thus till birth of liglit, 
Lest new shapes that sleep may send 

Scatter all its work to flight ; — 

Master, master of the night. 
Bid it spend 

Speech, song, prayer, and end ariglit. 

Yet, ah me ! if at her head 
There another phantom lean 

Murmuring o'er tiie fragrant bed, — 
Ah ! and if my spirit's queen 
Smile those alien words between, — 

Ah ! poor shade ! 
Shall it strive, or fade unseen ? 

How should love's own messenger 

Strive with love and be love's foe? 
Master, nay ! If thus, in her, 



Sleep a wedded heart should show, — • 
Silent let mine image go. 

Its old share 
Of tliy spell-bound air to know. 

Like a vapor wan and mute. 

Like a flame, so let it pass ; 
One low sigh across her lute. 

One dull breath against her glass ; 

And to my sad soul, alas ! 
One salute 

Cold as when death's foot shall pass. 

Then, too, let all hopes of mine, 

All vain lioi)es by night and day, 
Slowlj' at th,y summoning sign 

Rise up pallid and obey. 

Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — 
Be they thine. 

And to dreamworld pine away. 

Yet from old time, life, not death, 

blaster, in thy rule is rife : 
Lo ! through thee, with mingling breath, 

Adam woke beside his wife. 

O Love bring me so. for strife, 
Force and faith, 

Bring me so not death but life ! 

Yea. to Love himself is pour'd 
This frail song of hope and fear. 

Thou art Love, of one accord 

With kind Sleep to bring her near. 
Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! 

Master. Lord, 
In her name implor'd, O hear ! 1870. 

FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 

Peace in her chamber, wlieresoe'er 

It be. a holy place : 

The thought still brings my soul such 
grace 
As morning meadows wear. 

Whether it still be small and light, 
A maid's who dreams alone. 
As from her orchard-gate the moon 

Its ceiling showed at night : 

Or whether, in a shadow dense 
As nuptial hymns invoke. 
Innocent maidenhood awoke 

To married innocence : 

There still the thanks unheard await 
The unconscious gift bequeathed ; 
For there my soul this hour has 
breathed 

An air inviolate. 1870. 



788 



BRITISH POETS 



PLIGHTED PROMISE 

In a soft-complexioned sky. 

Fleeting rose and kindling gray, 
Have you seen Aurora fly 

At the break of day ? 
So my maiden, so my plighted may 

Blushing cheek and gleaming eye 
Lifts to look my way. 

Where the inmost leaf is stirred 
With the heart-beat of the grove, 

Have you lieard a hidden bird 
Cast her note above ? 

So my lady, so niA' lovely love. 
Echoing Cupid's prompted word, 
Makes a tune thereof. 

Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height. 

In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, 
Venus leap forth burning white, 

Dian pale and hide ? 
So my briglit breast-jewel, so my bride. 
One sweet night, when fear takes 
flight, 
Shall leap against my side. 1870. 

SUDDEN LIGHT 

I HAVE been here before, 

But when or how I cannot tell : 
I know the grass beyond tlie door. 
The sweet keen smell, 
The sighing sound, the lights around 
the shore. 

You have been mine before, — 
How long ago I may not know : 

But just when at tliat swallow's soar 
Your neck turned so, 
Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of j^ore. 

Has this been thus before ? 

And shall not thus time's eddying 
flight 
Still with our lives our loves restore 
In death's despite, 
And day and night yield one delight 
once more? 1870. 

THE WOODSPURGE 

The wind flapped loose, the wind was 

still, 
Shaken out dead from tree and liill : 
I had walked on at tlie wind's will, — 
I sat now, for tlie wind was still. 

Between mj^ knees my forehead was, — 
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! 



Mj'- hair was over in the grass. 
My naked ears heard tlie day pass. 

My eyes, wide open, had the run 
Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; 
Among those few, out of the sun. 
The woodspurge flowered, tliree cups in 
one. 

From perfect grief there need not be 
Wisdom or even memory : 
One thing then learnt remains to me. — 
The woodspurge has a cup of tliree. 1870. 

THE HONEYSUCKLE 

I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where 
Tlie hedge on high is quick with thorn, 
And climbing for the prize, was torn. 

And fouled my feet in quag-w^ater ; 
And by the thorns and b^"^ the wind 
The blossom that I took was thinn'd 

And yet I found it sweet and fair. 

Thence to a richer growth I came. 
Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, 
The honeysuckles sprang by scores. 

Not liarried like my single stem, 
All virgin lamps of scent and dew. 
So from iiij'^ hand that first I tlirew. 

Yet plucked not any more of them. 1870. 

A LITTLE WHILE 

A LITTLE wliile a little love 

Tlie hour yet bears for thee and me 
Who have not drawn tlie veil to see 

If still our heaven be lit above. 

Thou merely, at the day's last sigh. 
Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone, 

And I have heard the niglii-wind cry 
And deemed its s^jeech mine own. 

A little while a little love 
Tl>e scattering autumn hoards for us 
Wliose bower is not yet ruinous 

Nor quite un leaved our songless grove. 

Only across the shaken bouglis 
We hear the flood-tides seek the sea. 

And deep in both our hearts they rouse 
One wail for thee and me. 

A little while a little love 
May yet be ours who have not said 
The word it makes our eyes afraid 

To know that each is thinking of. 

Not yet the end : be our lips dumb 
In smiles a little season yet : 

I'll tell thee, when the end is come. 

How we may best forget. 1870. 



ROSSETTI 



789 



TROY TOWN 

Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, 

(O Troy Toion !) 
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, 
Tlie sun and moon of tlie heart's desire 
All Love's lordship lay between. 

(O Troll's down, 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, 

{O Troy Town!) 

Sa.ying ''A little gift is mine, 

A little gift for a heart's desii'e. 

Hear me speak and make me a sign ! 
(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 

" Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; 
(O Troy Town!) 
See it here as I hold it up, — 
Shaped it is to tlie heart's desire. 
Fit to fill when the gods would sup. 
(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 

" It was moulded like my breast ; 

(0 Troy Town!) 
He that sees it may not rest, 
Rest at all for his heart's desire. 
O give ear to my heart's behest ! 

(O Troy's down. 

Tall Troy's on fire!) 

" See my breast, how like it is ; 

{O Troy Town!) 

See it bare for the air to kiss ! 

Is the cup to thy lieart's desire ? 

O for the breast, O make it his ! 
(O Troi/'s doion. 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

" Yea, for my bosom here I sue : 
(O Troy Town!) 

Thou must give it where 't is due. 

Give it there to the heart's desire. 

Whom do I give my bosom to':* 

{O Troy's down, 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

" Each twin breast is an apple sweet ! 

(O Troy Town!) 
Once an apple stirred the beat 
Of thy heart with tlie heart's desire : 
Say, who brought it then to thy feet? 
(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

" They that claimed it thenwei'e three 

(O Troy Totmi !) 
For thy sake two hearts did he 



Make forlorn of the heart's desire. 

Do for him as he did for thee ! 

(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 

" Mine are apples grown to the south, 

(O Troy Town!) 
Grown to taste in the days of drouth. 
Taste and waste to tlie heart's desire : 
Mine are apples meet for his mouth ! " 
(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

Venus looked on Helen's gift, 

(O Troy Town!) 
Looked and smiled with subtle drift. 
Saw the work of her heart's desire : — 
" There thou kneel'st for Love to lift ! " 
(O Trnifs dowm.. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 

Venus looked in Helen's face. 

(O Troy Town !) 

Knew far off an hour and place, 

And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 

Laughed and said, "Thy gift hath 
grace !/' 

(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on. fire!) 

Cupid looked on Helen's breast, 

( O Troy Town !) 
Saw the heart within its nest. 
Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — 
Marked his arrow's burning crest. 
(O Troy's down. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 

Cupid took anothei" dart, 

(O Troy Town!) 

Fledged it for another heart. 

Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, 

Di'ew the string and said, " Depart ! " 
(O Troy's doirn. 
Tall Troy's on fire !) 

Paris turned upon his bed, 

(O Troy Town!) 
Turned upon his bed and said. 
Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — • 
" O to clasp her golden head ! " 

(O Troy's doion. 
Tall Troy's on fire!) 
1870. 

THE STREAM'S SECRET 

What thing unto mine ear 
Wouldst thou convey, — what secret 
thing, 
O wandering water ever whispering ? 



79° 



BRITISH POETS 



Surely tliy speech shall he of her. 
Thou water, O thou whispering wan- 
derer, 
What message dost thou bring ? 

Say, hath not Love leaned low 
Tliis hour beside th}' far well-head, 
And there through jealous hollowed 
fingers said 
The thing that most I long to know, — 
Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy 
flow 
And washed lips rosy red ? 

He told it to thee there 
Where tli,y voice hath a louder tone ; 
But where it welters to this little moan 

His will decrees that I should liear. 
Now speak : for with tiie silence is no 
fear. 
And I aui all alone. 

Shall Time not still endow 
One hour witli life, and I and she 
Slake in one kiss tlie thirst of memory? 
Say, stream ; lest Love should disavow 
Thy service, and the bird upon the 
bougli 
Sing first to tell it me. 

What whisperest thou ? Nay, why 
Name the dead hours? I mind them 
well. 
Their ghosts in many darkened door- 
ways dwell 
With desolate eyes (o know them bj'. 
Tliat hour must still be born ere it can 
die 
Of that I"d have tliee tell. 

But hear, before thou speak ! 
Withhold. I pray, the vain behest 
That while the maze hath still its bower 
for ijuest 
My burning heart should cease to seek. 
Be sure that Love ordained for souls 
more meek 
His roadside dells of re.st. 

Stream, when this silver thread 
In flood-time is a torrent brown. 
May any bulwark bind thy foaming 
ci'own ? 
Shall not the waters surge and spread 
And to the crannied boulders of their 
bed 
Still shoot the dead drift down? 

Let no rebuke find place 
In speech of thine : or it shall prove 



Tliat tliou dost ill expound the words of 
Love. 
Even as thine eddy's rippling race 
Would blur the perfect image of his face 
I will have none thereof. 

O learn and understand 
That "gainst the wrongs himself did 
wreak 
Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy 
cheek 
And eyes beseeching gave command ; 
And compassed in her close compassion- 
ate hand 
M}' heart must burn and speak. 

For then at last we spoke 
What eyes so oft had told to eyes 
Througli that long-lingering silence 
wliose half-sighs 
Alone tlie buried secret bi'oke. 
Which with snatched hands and lips' re- 
verberate stroke 
Then from the heart did rise. 

But she is far away 
Now ; nor the hours of night grown 
hoar 
Bring yet to me, long gazing from the 
door, 
The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray 
And rose-crown of the hour that leads 
the day 
When we shall meet once more. 

Dark as thy blinded wave 
When brimming midnight floods the 
glen,— 
Bright as the laughter of thy runnels 
when 
The dawn j-ields all tlie light they 
crave ; 
Even so these hours to wound and that 
to save 
Are sisters in Love's ken. 

Oh sweet her bending grace . 
Then when I kneel beside her feet ; 
And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging 
heaven ; and sweet 
The gathering folds of her embrace ; 
And her fall'n hair at last shed round 
my face 
When breaths and tears shall meet. 

Beneath her .sheltering hair. 
In the warm silence near lier breast, 
Our kisses and our sobs shall sink forest ; 
As in some still trance made aware 



ROSSETTI 



791 



I 



That day and niglit have wrought to 
fulness there 
And Love has built our nest. 

And as in the dim grove, 
When the rains cease that hushed 
them long, 
'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds 
wake to song, — 
So from our hearts deep-shrined in 
love. 
While the leaves throb beneath, around, 
above, 
The quivering notes shall throng. 

Till tenderest words fovind vain 
Draw back to wonder mute and deep. 
And closed lips in closed arms a silence 
keep, 
Subdued by memory's circling strain,— 
The wind-rapt sound that the wind 
brings again 
While all tlie willows weep. 

Then by her summoning art 
Shall memory conjure back the sere 
Autumnal Springs, from many a dying 
year 
Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart. 
The very ways where now we walk apart 
Who then shall cling so near. 

And with each thought new-grown. 
Some sweet c^aress or some sweet name 
Low-breathed shall let me know her 
thought the same : 
JIaking me rich with every tone 
And touch of the dear heaven so long 
unknown 
That filled my dreams with flame. 

Pity and love shall burn 
In her pressed cheek and cherishing 
hands ; 
And from the living spirit of love that 
stands 
Between her lips to sootlie and yearn. 
Each separate breath shall clasp me 
round in turn 
And loose my spirit's bands. 

Oh passing sweet and dear. 
Then when the worshipped form and 
face 
Are felt at length in darkling close em- 
brace ; 
Round which so oft the sun shone clear, 
With mocking light and pitiless atmo- 
spliere. 
In many an hour and place. 



Ah me ! with what proud growth 
Shall that ]ioui"'s thirsting race be run ; 
While, for each several sweetness still 
begun 
Afresh, endures love's endless drouth ; 
Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, 
sweet eyes, sweet mouth. 
Each singly wooed and won. 

Yet most with the sweet soul 
Shall love's espousals tlien be knit ; 
What time tlie governing cloud slieds 
peace from it 
O'er tremulous wings that touch the 
goal. 
And on the unmeasured height of Love's 
control 
The lustral fii-es are lit. 

Therefore, when breast and cheek 
Now part, from long embraces free, — 
Eat'h on the otlier gazirig shall but see 

A self that has no need to speak : 
All things unsought, yet nothing more 
to seek, — 
One love in unity. 

O water wandering past, — 
Albeit to thee I speak this thing, 
O water, thou that wanderest whispering. 

Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. 
What spell upon thy bosom should Love 
cast. 
Its secret thence to wring ? 

Nay, must tliou hear the tale 
Of the past days, — the heavy debt 
Of life that obdurate time withholds, — 
ere yet 
To win thine ear these prayers prevail. 
And by thy voice Love's self with high 
All-hail 
Yield up the amulet ? 

How should all this be told ? — 
All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — 
Heart's anguish in the impenetrable 
maze ; 
And on the waste uncolored wold 
The visible burthen of the sun grown 
cold 
And the moon's laboring gaze? 

Alas ! shall hope be nurs'd 
On life's all-succoring breast in vain, 
And made so perfect only to be slain ? 
Or shall not rather the sweet thirst 
Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth 
dispersed 
And strength grown fair again ? 



792 



BRITISH POETS 



Stands it not by the door — 
Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet 
With bodiless form and unapparent feet 

That cast no shadow yet before, 
Though round its head the dawn begins 
to pour 
The breath that makes day sweet? 

Its eyes invisible 
Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade 
Be born, — yea, till the journeying line 
be laid 
Upon the point that wakes the spell, 
And there in lovelier light than tongue 
can tell 
Its presence stand array'd. 

Its soul remembers yet 
Those sunless hours that passed it by ; 
And still it hears the night's disconso- 
late cry, 
And feels the branches wringing wet 
Cast on its brow, that may not once for- 
get. 
Dumb tears from the blind sky. 

But oh ! when now lier foot 
Draws near, for wliose sake night and 
day 
Were long in weary longing sighed 
away, — 
The hour of Love, 'mid airs grown 
mute. 
Shall sing beside the door, and Love's 
own lute 
Thrill to the passionate lay. 

Thou know'st, for Love has told 
Within thine ear, O stream, how soon 
That song shall lift its sweet appointed 
tune. 
O tell me, for my lips are cold, 
And in my veins the blood is waxing 
old 
Even while I beg the boon. 

So, in that hour of sighs 
Assuaged, shall we beside this stone 
Yield thanks for grace ; while in thy 
mirror shown 
The twofold image softly lies, 
Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes 
Is imaged all alone. 

Still silent ? Can no art 
Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, 
To thee let nothing come that owns his 
sway : 
Let happy lovers have no pai t 



With thee ; nor even so sad and poor a 
heart 
As thou hast spurned to-day. 

To-day ? Lo ! night is here. 
The glen grows heavy with some veil 
Risen from the earth or fall'n to make 
earth pale ; 
And all stands hushed to eye and ear. 
Until the night-wind shake the shade 
like fear 
And every covert quail. 

Ah ! by another wave 
On other airs the hour must come 
Which to tl)y heart, my love, shall call 
me home. 
Between the lips of the low cave 
Against that night the lapping waters 
lave, 
And the dark lips are dumb . 

But there Love's self doth stand. 
And with Life's weary wings far flown, 
And with Death's eyes that make the 
water moan, 
(lathers the water in his hand : 
And they that drink know nought of 
sky or land 
But only love alone. 

O soul-sequestered face 
Far off, — O were that night but now ! 
So even beside that stream even I and 
thou 
Through thirsting lips should draw 
Love's grace. 
And in the zone of that supreme embrace 
Bind aching breast and brow, 

O water whispering 
Still through the dark into mine ears, — 
As with nnne eyes, is it not now with 
liers ? — 
Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, 
Wan water, wandering water weltering, 
This hidden tide of tears. 1870. 

LOVE-LILY 

Betw^een the hands, between the brows. 

Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
A spirit is born whose birth endows 

My blood with fire to burn through 
me ; 
Who breathes upon my gazing eyes. 

Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear. 
At whose least touch my color flies. 

And whom my life grows faint to hear. 



ROSSETTI 



793 



Within the voice, within the heart, 
Within the mind of Lov«-Lily, 

(A spirit is born who lifts apart 
His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
Who on my mouth liis finger lays, 
And shows, wliile wiiispering lutes 
confer, 
That Eden of Love's watered ways 
Whose winds and spirits worship her. 
Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, 
and voice, 
Kisses and words of Love-Lily, — 
Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice 
Till riotous longing rest in me ! 
Ah ! let not hope be still distraught. 

But find in her its gracious goal. 
Whose speech Truth knows not from 
her thought 
Nor Love lier body from lier soul. 

1870. 

THE HOUSE OF LIFE 

THE SONNET 

A Sonnet is a moment's moniunent, — 

Memorial from the SouVs eternitij 

To one dead deathless hour. Look that 

it he, 
Wliether for lustral rite or dire portent , 
Of its own arduous fidness reverent : 
Carve it in ivory or in eboiijj, 
As Day or Night may rule; and let 

Time see 
Its flowering crest impearled and orient. 
A Sonnet is a coi)i : its face reveals 
The Soul,^ts converse, to what Power 

'tis due : — 
Whether for tribute to the a ugust appe(ds 
Of Life, or doiver in Love's high retinxr. 
It serve : or ''mid the dark wharf's cav- 
ernous breath. 
In Charon's palm it pay the toll to 
Death. 

PART I. YOUTH AND CHANGE 

I. LOVE ENTHRONED 

I MARKED all kindred Powers the heart 

finds fair : — 
Truth, with awed lips ; and Hope, with 

eyes upcast ; 
And Fame, whose loud wings fan the 

ashen Past 
To signal-fires, Oblivion's flight to scare ; 
And Youth, with still some single golden 

hair 



Unto his shoulder clinging, since the 

last 
Embrace wherein two sweet arms held 

him fast ; 
And Life, .still wreathing flowers for 

Deat4i to wear. 
Love's tlirone was not with these ; but 

far above 
All passionate wind of welcome and 

farewell 
He sat in breatliless bowers they dream 

not of ; 
Though Truth foreknow Love's heart, 

and Hope foretell, 
And Fame be for Love's sake desiraV)le, 
And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet 

to Love. 

H. BRIDAL BIRTH 

As when desire, long darkling, dawns, 

and first 
The mother looks upon the new-born 

chihl, 
Even so my Lady .stood at gaze and 

smiled 
When her .soul knew at length tlie Love 

it nurs'd. 
Born with lier life, creature of poignant 

thirst 
And exquisite hunger, at her heart 

Love lay 
Quickening in darkne.ss, till a voice tliat 

tlay 
Cried on him, and the bonds of birth 

wei'e burst. 
Now, shadowed by his wings, our faces 

yearn 
Together, as his fullgrown feet now 

range 
The grove, and his warm iiands our 

couch prepare : 
Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn 
Be born his cliildren, when Deatli's nup- 
tial change 
Leaves us for light the halo of his hair. 

III. love's TESTAMENT 

O THOU who at Love's hour ecstatically 

Unto my heart dost ever more present. 

Clothed with his fire, thy heart his tes- 
tament ; 

Whom I have neared and felt thy breath 
to be 

Tlie inmost incense of his sanctuary : 

Who without speecli hast owned him, 
and. intent 

Upon his will, thy life with mine hast 
blent. 



794 



BRITISH POETS 






And murmured, " I am tliiiie, thou 'rt 

one witli me ! " 
O what from thee the grace, to me the 

prize. 
And what to Love the glory, — when the 

whole 
Of the deep stair thou tread'st to the 

dim shoal 
And weary water of the place of sighs, 
And there dost work deliverance, as 

thine eyes 
Draw up mj^ prisoned spirit to tliy soul ! 

IV. LOVESIGHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? 
When in tlie light the spirits of mine eyes 
Before tliy face, tlieir altai, solemnize 
The worship of that Love through thee 

made known ? 
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two 

alone,) 
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage 

lies, 
And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 
O love, my love ! if I no more sliould see 
Thyself, nor on the earth tlie shadow of 

thee, 
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
How then should sound u|[)on Life's 

darkening slope 
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves 

of Hope, 
The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 

V. heart's hope 

By what word's power, tlie key of paths 

untrod, 
Shall I tlie difficult deeps of Love explore. 
Till parted waves of Song yield up the 

shore 
Even as that sea which Israel crossed 

dryshod ? 
For lo ! in some poor rhythmic period. 
Lady, I fain would tell how evermore 
Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor 
Thee from myself, neither our love from 

God. 
Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and 

thine, would I 
Draw from one loving lieart such 

evidence 
As to all hearts all things shall signify ; 
Tender as dawn's first hill-fire, and in- 
tense 
As instantaneous penetrating sense. 
In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs 

gone by. 



VIII. LOVES LOVERS 

Some ladies love the jewels in Love's 
zone 

And gold-tipped darts he hath for pain- 
less play 

In idle scornful hours he flings away ; 

And some that listen to his lute's soft 
tone 

Do love to vaunt the silver praise their 
own ; 

Some prize his blindfold sight ; and 
there be they 

Who kissed his wings which bi'ought 
him yesterday 

And thank his wings to-day that he is 
flown. 

My lady only loves tlie lieart of Love : 

Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath 
for thee 

His bower of unimagined flower and 
tree : 

There kneels he now, and all-anhun- 
gered of 

Thine eyes gray-lit in shadowing hair 
above, 

Seals with thy mouth his immortality. 

IX. PASSION AND WORSHIP 

One flame-winged Ijroxight a white- 
winged harji-player 

Even where my lady and I lay all alone ; 

Saying: " Behold, this minstrel is un- 
known ; 

Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here : 

Only my strains are to Love's dear ones 
dear." 

Then said I : " Through thine hautboy's 
rapturous tone 

Unto my lady still this harp makes 
moan , 

And still she deems the cadence deep 
and clear." 

Then said my lady : " Thou art Passion 
of Love, 

And this Love's Worship : both he 
plights to me. 

Tliy mastering music walks the sunlit 
sea : 

But wliere wan water trembles in the 
grove 

And the wan moon is all the light there- 
of. 

This harp still makes my name its vol- 
untary." 

X. the PORTRAIT 

O Lord of all compassionate control. 
O Love ! let this my lady's picture glow 



ROSSETTI 



795 



Under my hand to praise lier name, and 

show 
Even of her inner self the perfect whole: 
That he who seeks her beauty's furtliest 

goal, 
Beyond the light that the sweet glances 

throw 
And refluent wave of the sweet smile, 

may know 
The very sky and sea-line of her soul. 
Lo ! it is done. Above the enthroning 

throat 
The mouth's mould testifies of voice and 

kiss. 
The shadowed eyes remember and fore- 
see; 
Her face is made her shrine. Let all men 

note 
That in all years (O Love, tliy gift is 

this !) 
They that would look on her must come 

to me. 

XI. THE LOVE-LETTER 

Warmed by her hand and shadowed by 
her hair 

As close she leaned and poured her heart 
through thee, 

Whereof the articulate throbs accom- 
pany 

The smooth black stream that makes thj' 
whiteness fair, — ■ 

Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her 
breath aware, — 

Oh let thy silent song disclose to me 

Tliat soul wherewith her lips and eyes 
agree 

Like married music in Love's answering 
air. 

Fain had I watched her when, at some 
fond thought, 

Her bosom to the writing closelier 
press'd, 

And her breast's secrets peered into her 
breast ; 

Wlien, through eyes raised an instant, 
her soul sought 

My soul, and from the sudden confluence 
caught 

The words that made her love the love- 
liest. 

XII. THE lovers' walk 

Sweet twining hedgeflowers wind-stir- 
red in no wise 

On this June day ; and hand that clings 
in hanil :— 



Still glades ; and meeting faces scarcely 

fann'd : 
An osier-odoi'ed stream that draws the 

skies 
Deep to its heart ; and mirrored eyes in 

eyes : — 
Fresh hourly wonder o'er the Summer 

land 
Of light and cloud ; and two souls softly 

spann'd 
With one o'erarching heaven of smiles 

and sighs : — 
Even such their path, whose bodies lean 

unto 
Each other's visible sweetness amor- 
ously , — 
Whose passionate hearts lean by Love's 

high decree 
Together on his heart for ever true, 
As the cloud-foaming firmamental blue 
Rests on the blue line of a foamless sea. 

XIII. youth's antiphony 

" I LOVE you, sweet : how can you ever 
learn 

How much I love you?" '' You I love 
even so. 

And so I learn it." " Sweet, you can- 
not know 

How fair you are." " If fair enougli to 
earn 

Your love, so much is all my love's con- 
cern." 

" My love grows hourly, sweet." " Mine 
too dotli grow. 

Yet love seemed full so many hours 
ago ! " 

Thus lovers speak, till kisses claim their 
turn. 

Ah ! happy they to whom such words as 
these 

In youth have served for speech the 
whole day long. 

Hour after hour, remote from the world's 
throng. 

Work, contest, fame, all life's confe- 
derate pleas, — 

What while Love breathed in sighs and 
silences 

Through two blent souls one rapturous 
undersong. 

XIV. youth's spring-tribute 

On this sweet bank your head thrice 

sweet and dear 
I lay, and spi-ead your hair on either 

side. 



796 



BRITISH POETS 



And see the newborn vvoodflowers bash- 
ful-eyed 

Look through the golden tresses here 
and there. 

On these debateable borders of the year 

Spring's foot half falters ; scarce she j'et 
may knou' 

The leafless blackthorn-blossom from 
the snow ; 

And through lier bowers the wind's way 
still is clear. 

But April's sun strikes dow^n the glades 
to-day ; 

So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my 
kiss 

Creep, as the Spring now thrills througli 
every spray, 

Up your warm throat to your warm 
lips ; for this 

Is even the liour of Love's sworn suit- 
service, 

With whom cold hearts are counted 
castaway. 

XV. THE BIRTH-BOND 

Have jou not noted, in some familj- 
Where two were born of a first marriage- 
bed. 
How still they own their gracious bond, 

though fed 
And iiursed on tlie forgotten V)reast and 

knee ? — 
How to their fatiier's children they sliall 

be 
In act and tiiought of one goodwill ; but 

each 
Shall for the other have, in silence 

speecii, 
And in a word complete community ? 
Even so, when first I saw you, seemed 

it, love. 
That among souls allied to mine was yet 
One nearer kindred than life hinted of. 
O born witii me somewhere that men 

forget, 
And though in years of sight and sound 

unmet, 
Known for iny soul's birth-partner well 

enough ! 

XVII. beauty's pageant 

What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, 
or last 

Incarnate flower of culminating tlay, — 

Wliat marshalled marvels on the skirts 
of May, 

Or song full-quired, sweet June's enco- 
miast ; 



What glory of change by nature's hand 

amass'd 
Can vie with all those moods of varying 

grace 
Which o'er one loveliest woman's form 

and face 
Within this hour, within this room, 

have pass'd ? 
Love's very A-esture and elect disguise 
Was each fine movement, — wonder nevv- 

begot 
Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot ; 
Joy to his sight wlio now the sadlier 

sighs. 
Parted again, and sorrow yet for eyes 
Unborn, that read these words and saw 

her not. 

XVIII. GENIUS IN BEAUTY 

Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call 

Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sub- 
lime, — 

Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones 
of time, — 

Is more with compassed mysteries musi- 
cal ; 

Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet 
footfall 

More gathered gifts exuberant Life be- 
qvieathes 

Than doth tliis sovereign face, whose 
love-sjjell breathes 

Even from its shadowed contour on the 
wall. 

As many men are poets in their youth, 

But for one sweet-strung soul tiie wires 
prolong 

Even thi-ough all change the indomi- 
table song ; 

So in like wise the envenomed years, 
whose tooth 

Rends shallower grace with ruin void of 
ruth. 

Ui^on this beauty's power shall wreak 
no wrong. 

XIX. SILENT NOON 

Your hands lie ojjen in the long, fresli 

grass, — 
The finger-points look through like rosy 

blooms : 
Your ej'es smile peace. The pasture 

gleams and glooms 
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and 

amass. 
All round our nest, far as the eye can 

pass, 



I 



ROSSETTI 



797 



Are golden kingcup-fields with silver 
edge 

Where the cow-parsley skirts the haw- 
thorn hedge. 

'T is visible silence, still as the hour- 
glass. 

Deep in the sun-searclied growths the 
dragon-fly 

Hangs like a blue thread loosened from 
the sky. — 

So this wing'd hour is dropped to us 
from above. 

Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for death- 
less dower. 

Tills close-companioned inarticulate 
hour 

When twofold silence was the song of 
love. 

XXI. LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's 

downfall 
About thy face ; her sweet liands round 

thy head 
In gracious fostering union garlanded ; 
Her tremulous smiles ; her glances' 

sweet recall 
Of love ; her murmviring siglis memo- 
rial ; 
Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy 

kisses shed 
On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so 

led 
Back to her mouth, which answers there 

for all :— 
What sweeter than these things, except 

the thing 
In lacking which all these would lose 

their sweet : — 
The confident heart's still fervor : the 

swift beat 
And soft subsidence of the spirit's 

wing. 
Then when it feels, in cloud-girt way- 
faring. 
The breatli of kindred jjlumes against 

its feet ? 

XXIV. PRIDE OF YOUTH 

Even as a child, of sorrow tiiat we give 
The dead, but little in liis lieart can 

find. 
Since without need of thought to his 

clear mind 
Their turn it is to die and his to live :— 
Even so the winged New Love smiles to 

receive 



Along liis eddying plumes the auroral 

wind. 
Nor, forward glorying, casts one look 

behind 
Where niglit-rack shrouds the Old Love 

fugitive. 
Tiiere is a change in eA'ery hour's recall, 
And the last cowslip in the fields we see 
On the same day with the first corn- 
poppy. 
Alas for hourly change ! Alas for nil 
The loves that from his luiiid proud 

Youth lets fall. 
Even as the beads of a told rosar}' ! 

XXVI. MID-RAPTURE 

Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; 

Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose 
summoning eyes, 

Even now, as for our love-world's new 
sunrise. 

Shed very dawn ; whose voice, attuned 
above 

All modulation of the deep-bo wered 
dove. 

Is like a liand laid softly on tlie soul ; 

Whose lumd is like a sweet voice to con- 
trol 

Those worn tired brows it hath the keep- 
ing of : — 

AVliat word can answer to thy word^ 
what gaze 

To thine, wliich now absorbs within its 
sphere 

My worshipping face, till I am mirrored 
tiiere 

Light- circ^led in a heaven of deep-drawn 
rays ? 

What clasp, wliatkiss mine inmost heart 
can prove, 

O lovely and beloved, O mj' love? 

XXVII. heart's compass 

Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself 

alone, 
But as the meaning of all tilings tliat 

are ; 
A breatldess wonder, shadowing forth 

afar 
Some heavenly solstice hushed and hal- 
cyon ; 
Whose unstirred lips ai-e music's visible 

tone ; 
Wliose eyes the sun-gate of tlie soul 

unbar, 
Being of its furthest fires oracular — 
Tiie evident heart of all life sown and 

mown. 



798 



BRITISH POETS 



Even such love is ; and is not tlij' name 

Love ? 
Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends 

apart 
All gathering clouds of Night's anibigu- 

ovis art ; 
Flings them far down, and sets thine 

eyes above ; 
And simply, as some gage of flower or 

glove, 
Stakes with a smile the world against 

th}' heart. 

XXXI. HER GIFTS 

High grace, the dower of queens ; and 
therewithal 

Some wood-born wonder's sweet sim- 
plicity ; 

A glance like water brimming with the 
sky 

Or hjacinth-light where forest-shadows 
fall : 

Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth 
enthral 

The heart ; a mouth whose passionate 
forms imply 

All music and all silence held thereby ; 

Deep golden locks, lier sovereign coronal; 

A round reared neck, meet column of 
Love's shrine 

To cling to when the heart takes sanc- 
tuary ; 

Hands which for ever at Love's bidding 
be, 

And soft-stirred feet still answering to 
his sign : — 

These are her gifts, as tongue may tell 
them o'er. 

Breathe low her name, my soul ; for 
that means more. 

XXXII. EQUAL TROTH 

Not by one measure mayst tliou mete 
our love : 

For liow should I be loved as I love thee ? — 

I, graceless, joyless, lacking absolutely 

All gifts that with thy queensliip best 
behove ; — - 

Thou, throned in every heart's elect al- 
cove, 

And crowned with garlands culled from 
every tree. 

Which for no head but thine, by Love's 
decree, 

All beauties and all mysteries interwove. 

But here tliine eyes and lii^s yield soft 
rebuke : — 



" Tlien only," (say'st thou) "could I 

love tliee less, 
When thou couldst doubt my love's 

equality." 
Peace, sweet ! If not to sum but worth 

we look. 
Thy heart's transcendence, not rnj- heart's 

excess, — 
Then more a thousandfold thou lov'st 

than I. 

XXXIII. VENUS VICTRIX 

Could Juno's self more sovereign pres- 
ence wear 

Tlian thou, 'mid other ladies tlironed 
in grace ? — 

Or Pallas, when thou bend'st with soul- 
stilled face 

O'er poet's page gold-shadowed in thy 
hair ? 

Dost thou than Venus seem less heavenly 
fair 

When o'er the sea of love's tumultuous 
trance 

Hovers thy smile, and mingles with 
tliy glance 

That sweet voice like the last wave mur- 
muring there ? 

Before such triune loveliness divine 

Awestruck I ask, which goddess here 
most claims 

The prize that, howsoe'er adjudged, is 
thine ? 

Then Love breathes low the sweetest of 
thy names ; 

And Venus Victrix to my heart doth 
bring 

Herself, the Helen of her guerdoning. 

XXXIV. THE DARK GLASS 

Not I myself know all my love for thee : 
How should I reach so far, who cannot 

weigh 
To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday ? 
Shall birth and deatli, and all dark names 

that be 
As doors and windows bared to some 

loud sea, 
Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face 

with spray ; 
And shall my sense pierce love, — the 

last relay 
And ultimate outpost of eternity? 
Lo ! what am I to Love, the loixl of all? 
One murmuring shell he gathers from 

the sand. 
One little heart-flame sheltered in his 

hand. 



ROSSETTI 



799 



Yet through tliine eyes he grants me 

clearest call 
And veriest touch of powers primordial 
That any hour-girt life may understand. 

XL. SEVERED SELVES 

Two separate divided silences, 

Which, brought together, would find 

loving voice ; 
Two glances wliich together would re- 
joice 
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark 

trees ; 
Two iiands apart whose touch alone gives 

ease ; 
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with 

mutual flame, 
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made 

the same ; 
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of 

sundering seas : — 
Such are we now. Ah ! may our hope 

forecast 
Indeed one hour again, when on this 

stream 
Of darkened love once more tlie liglit 

sliall gleam ? — 
An lioiu" how slow to come, how quickl}' 

past,— 
Which blooms and fades, and oidy leaves 

at last. 
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated 

dream. 

XLI. THROUGH DEATH TO LOVE 

Like labor-laden moonclouds faint to flee 
From winds that sweep the winter- 
bitten wold, — 
Like multiform circumfluence manifold 
Of night's flood-tide, — like terrors tluit 

agree 
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate 

sea, — 
Even such, within some glass dimmed 

by our breath. 
Our hearts discern wild images of Death, 
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity. 
Hovvbeit athwart Death's imminent 

shade doth soar 
One Power, than flow of stream or flight 

of dove 
Sweeter to glide around, to brood above. 
Tell me, my heart, — what angel-greeted 

door 
Or threshold of wing-winnowed thresli- 

ing-floor 
Hatli guest fire-fledged as thine, whose 

lord is Love ? 



XLVIIL DEATH-IN-LOVE 

There came an image in Life's retinue 
That had Love's wings and bore his 

gonfalon : 
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought 

thereon , 

soul-sequestered face, thy form and 

hue ! 
Bewildering sounds, such as Spring 

wakens to. 
Shook in its folds ; and through my 

heart its power 
Sped trackless as the iinmemorable hour 
When birth's dark portal groaned and 

all was new. 
But a veiled woman followed, and she 

caught 
The banner round its staff, to, furl and 

cling, — 
Then plucked a feather from the bearer's 

wing. 
And held it to his lips that stirred it not, 
And said to me, " Behold, there is no 

breath : 

1 and this Love are one, and I am Death." 

XLIX. WILLOW WOOD— I 

I SAT with Love upon a woodside well, 
Leaning across the water, I and he ; 
Nor ever did lie speak nor looked at me. 
But touched his lute wherein was audible 
The certain secret thing he had to tell : 
Only our mirrored eyes met silently 
In the low wave ; and that sound came 

to be 
The passionate voice I knew ; and ray 

tears fell. 
And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew 

hers ; 
And with his foot and with his wing- 
feathers 
He swept the spring that watered my 

heart's drouth. 
Then tlie dark ripples spread to waving 

hair. 
And as I stooped, her own lips rising 

til ere 
Bubbled with brimming kisses at my 

mouth. 

L. WILLOWWOOD — II 

And now Love sang : but his was such 

a song. 
So meshed with half-remembrance hard 

to free. 
As souls disused in death's sterility 
May sing when the new birthday tarries 

long. 



8oo 



BRITISH POETS 



And I was made aware of a dumb throng 
That stood aloof, one form by every tree, 
All mournful forms, for eacli was I or she, 
The shades of those our days that had 

no tongue. 
They looked on us, and knew us and 

were known ; 
While fast together, alive from the abyss. 
Clung the soul-wrung imislacable close 

kiss ; 
And pity of self through all made 

broken moan 
Wliich said, " For once, for once, for 

once alone ! " 
And still Love sang, and what he sang 

was this : — 

LI. WILLOWWOOD — III 

" O YE, all ye that walk in Willowwood, 
That walk with hollow faces burning 

white ; • 
What fathom-depth of soul-struck 

widowhood. 
What long, what longer hours, one life- 
long night. 
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed 
Your last hope lost, wlio so in vain invite 
Your lips to that their unforgotten food, 
Ere ye, ere ye again shall see tlie light ! 
Alas ! the bitter banks in Willowwood. 
With tear-spurge wan, with blood- wort 

burning red : 
Alas ! if ever svich a pillow could 
Steej) deep the soul in sleep till she were 

dead, — 
Better all life forget her than this thing. 
That Willowwood should hold her wan- 
dering ! " 

LII. WILLOWWOOD— IV 

So sang he : and as meeting rose and 
rose 

Together cling through the wind's well- 
away 

Nor change at once, yet near the end of 
day 

The leaves drop loosened where the 
heart-stain glows, — 

So when the song died did the kiss un- 
close ; 

And her face fell back drowned, and was 
as gray 

As its gray eyes ; and if it ever may 

Meet mine again I know not if Love 
knows. 

Only I know that I leaned low and drank 

A long draught from the water where 
she sank. 



Her breath and all her tears and all her 

soul : 
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love's 

face 
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity 

and grace, 
Till both our heads were in his aureole. 

LIII. WITHOUT HER 

What of her glass without her? The 

blank gray 
There where the pool is blind of the 

moon's face. 
Her dress without her? The tossed 

empty space 
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has 

passed away. 
Her paths without her ? Day's appointed 

sway 
Usurped by desolate night. Her pil- 
lowed place 
Without her? Tears, ah me ! for love's 

good grace. 
And cold forgetfulness of night or day. 
What of the heart without her ? Nay, 

poor heart, 
Of thee what word remains ere speech 

be still ? 
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, 
Steep ways and weary, without her thou 

art, 
Whei'e the long cloud; the long wood's 

counterpart. 
Sheds doubled darkness up the laboring 

hill. 

LV. STILLBORN LOVE 

The hour which might have been yet 

might not be. 
Which man's and woman's heart con- 
ceived and bore 
Yet whereof life was barren, — on what 

sliore 
Bides it the breaking of Time's weary 

sea? 
Bondchild of all consummate joys set 

free. 
It somewhere sighs and serves, and 

mute before 
The house of Love, hears through the 

echoing door 
His hours elect in choral consonancy. 
But lo ! what wedded souls now hand in 

hand 
Together tread at last the immortal 

strand 
With eyes where burning memory lights 

love home ? 



ROSSETTI 



8oi 



Lo ! how the little outcast hour has 

turned 
And leaped to them and in their faces 

yearned : — 
" I am your child : O parents, ye have 

come ! " 

LVI. TRUE WOMAN— I. ITERSELF 

To be a sweetness more desired than 
Spring ; 

A bodily beauty more acceptable 

Than the wild rose-tree's arch that 
crowns the fell ; 

To be an essence more envii-oning 

Than wine's drained juice; a music 
ravishing 

More than the passionate pulse of Phil- 
omel ; — 

To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's 
swell 

That is the flower of life : — how strange 
a tiling ! 

How strange a thing to be what Man 
can know 

But as a sacred secret ! Heaven's own 
screen 

Hides her soul's purest depth and loveli- 
est glow ; 

Closely withlield, as all things most un- 
seen, — 

Tlie wave-bowered pearl, — the heart- 
shaped seal of green 

That flecks the snowdrojJ underneath the 
snow. 

LVII. TRUE WOMAN— II. HER LOVE 

She loves him ; for her inlinite soul is 

Love, 
And he her lodestar. Passion in lier is 
A glass facing his fire, where the bright 

bliss 
Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet 

move 
That glass, a stranger's amorous flame to 

prove, 
And it shall turn, by instant contraries, 
Ice to the moon ; while her pure fire to 

Ins 
For whom it burns, clings close i' the 

heart's alcove. 
Lo ! they are one. With wifely breast 

to breast 
And circling arms, she welcomes all 

command 
Of love, — lier soul to answeinng ardors 

fann'd : 
Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to 

rest, 

51 



Ah ! who shall say she deems not love- 
liest 
The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand ? 

LVIII. TRUE WOMAN — HI. HER HEAVEN 

If to grow old in Heaven is to grow 

young, 
(As the Seer saw and said,) then blest 

were he 
With youtli for evermore, whose heaven 

should be 
True Woman, she whom these weak 

notes have sung, 
Here and hereafter, — choir-strains of her 

tongue, — 
Sky-spaces of her eyes, — sweet signs 

that flee 
About her soul's immediate sanctuary, — 
Were Paradise all uttermost worlds 

among. 
The sunrise blooms and withers on the 

hill 
Like any hillflower ; and the noblest 

ti'oth 
Dies here to dust. Yet shall Heaven's 

promise clothe 
Even yet those lovers who have cherished 

still 
This test for love : — in every kiss sealed 

fast 
To feel the first kiss and f orbode the last. 

LIX. love's last GIFT 

Love to his singer held a glistening leaf, 
And said : " The rose-tree and the apple- 
tree 
Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure 

the bee ; 
And golden shafts are in the feathered 

sheaf 
Of the great harvest-marshal, the year's 

chief. 
Victorious Summer ; aye, and 'neath 

warm sea 
Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably 
Between the filtering channels of sunk 

reef. 
All are my blooms ; and all sweet blooms 

of love 
To thee I gave while Spring and Summer 

sang ; 
But Autumn stops to listen, with some 

pang 
From those worse tilings the wind is 

moaning of. 
Only this laurel dreads no winter days : 
Take my last gift ; thy heart hath sung 

my praise." 



8o2 



BRITISH POETS 



PART II. CHANGE AND FATE 

LX. TRANSFIGURED LIFE 

As growth of form or momentary glance 

In a child's features will recall to mind 

The father's with the mother's face com- 
bin'd, — 

Sweet intercliange that memories still 
enhance : 

And yet, as childhood's yeai's and youth's 
advance, 

The gradual mouldings leave one stamp 
behind. 

Till in the blended likeness now we find 

A separate man's or woman's counte- 
nance : — 

So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain, 
Its very parents, evermore expand 

To bid the passion's fullgrown birth re- 
main. 

By Art's transfiguring essence subtly 
spann'd ; 

And from that song-cloud shaped as a 
man's hand 

There comes the sound as of abundant 
rain, 

LXI. THE SONG-THROE 

By thine own tears thy song must tears 

beget, 
O Singer ! Magic mirror thou hast none 
Except thy manifest heai't ; and save 

thine own 
Anguish or ardor, else no amulet. 
Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery 

jet 
Of soulless air-flung fountains ; nay, 

more dry 
Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst 

and sigh, 
Tliat song o'er which no singer's lids 

grew wet. 
The Song-god — He the Sun-god — is no 

slave 
Of thine : thy Hunter he, who for thj- soul 
Fledges his shaft : to no august control 
Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he 

gave : 
But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his 

smart, 
The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy 

brother's heart. 

LXV. KNOWN IN VAIN 

As two whose love, first foolish, widen- 
ing scope. 
Knows suddenly, to music high and soft, 



The Holy of holies ; who because they 

scoff'd 
Are now amazed with shame, nor dare 

to cope 
With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven 

should ope ; 
Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they 

laugh 'd 
In speech ; nor speak, at length ; but 

sitting oft 
Togetlier, within hopeless sight of hope 
For hours are silent : — So it happeneth 
When Work and Will awake too late, to 

gaze 
After their life sailed by, and hold their 

breath. 
Ah ! who shall dare to search through 

what sad maze 
Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 
Follow the desultory feet of Death ? 

LXVI. THE HEART OP THE NIGHT 

From child to youth ; from youth to 

arduous man ; 
From lethargy to fever of the heart ; 
From faithful life to dream-dowered 

days ajjart ; 
From trust to doubt ; from doubt to 

brink of ban ; — 
Thus much of change in one swift cycle 

ran 
Till now. Alas, the soul ! — how soon 

must slie 
Accept her primal immortality, — 
The flesh resume its dust whence it be- 
gan ? 
O Lord of work and peace ! O Lord of 

life ! 
O Lord, the awful Lord of will ! though 

late. 
Even yet renew this soul with duteous 

breath : 
That when the peace is garnered in from 

strife, 
The work retrieved, the will regenerate, 
This soul may see thy face, O Lord of 

death ! 

LXVII. THE landmark 

Was that the landmark? What — the 
foolish well 

Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop 
to drink. 

But sat and flung the pebbles from its 
brink 

In sport to send its imaged skies pell- 
mell. 



ROSSETTI 



803 



(And mine owu image, liad I noted 

well !)— 
Was that my point of turning? — I liad 

thought 
The stations of my course should rise un- 

souglit, 
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel. 
But lo ! the path is missed, I must go 

back, 
And thirst to drink when next I reach 

tlie spring 
Wliich once I stained, which since may 

have grown black. 
Yet though no light be left nor bird now 

sing 
As hei-e I turn, I'll thank God, hasten- 
ing, 
That the same goal is still on the same 

track. 

LXX. THE HILL SUMMIT 

This feast-day of the sun, his altar there 
In the broad west has blazed for vesper- 
song ; 
And I have loitered in the vale too long 
And gaze now a belated worshipper. 
Yet may I not forget that I was 'ware, 
So journeying, of his face at intervals 
Transfigured where the fringed horizon 

falls,— 
A fiery bush with coruscating hair. 
And now that I have climbed and won 

this height, 
I nuist tread downward through the 

sloping shade 
And travel the bewildered tracks till 

night. 
Yet for this hour I still may here be 

stayed 
And see the gold air and the silver fade 
And the last bird fly into the last light. 

LXXI. THE choice— I 

Eat thou and drink ; to-morrow thou 

shalt die. 
Surely the earth, that's wise being very 

old, 
Needs not our help. Then loose me, 

love, and hold 
Thy sultry hair up from my face ; that I 
May pour for thee this golden wine, 

brim-high, 
Till round the glass thy fingers glow 

like gold. 
We'll drown all hours : thy song, while 

liours are toll'd, 
Shall leap, as fountains veil the chang- 
ing sky. 



Now kiss, and think that there are really 

those. 
My own high-bosomed beauty, who 

increase 
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might 

choose our way ! 
Through many years they toil ; then on 

a day 
They die not, — for their life was death, 

— but cease ; 
And round their narrow lips the mould 

falls close. 

LXXII. THE CHOICE — II 

Watch tliou and fear ; to-morrow thou 

shalt die. 
Or art thou sure thou shalt have time 

for death ? 
Is not the day which God's word promis- 

eth 
To couie man knows not when ? In 

yonder skj, 
Now while we speak, the sun speeds 

forth : can I 
Or thou assure him of his goal? God's 

breath 
Even at this moment liaply quickeneth 
The air to a flame ; till spirits, always 

nigh 
Though screened and hid, shall walk 

the daylight here. 
And dost thou prate of all that man 

shall do ? 
Canst thou, who hast but plagues, pre- 
sume to be 
Glad in liis gladness that comes after 

thee ? 
Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? 

Go to : 
Cover thy countenance, and watch, and 

fear, 

LXXIII. THE CHOICE — III 

Think thou and act ; to-morrow thou 

shalt die. 
Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon 

the shore. 
Thou say 'st: "Man's measured path is 

all gone o'er : 
Up all his years, steeply, with strain 

and sigh, 
Man clomb until he touched the truth ; 

and I, 
Even I, am he whom it was destined 

for." 
How should this be ? Art thou then so 

much more 



8o4 



BRITISH POETS 



Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst 

reap theiebj' ? 
Nay, coine up hither. From this wave- 
washed inound 
Unto the furtliest flood-brim look with 

me ; 
Then reacii on with tliy thought till it be 

drown'd. 
Miles and miles distant tliough the last 

line be, 
And though thy soul sail leagues and 

leagues beyond, — 
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there 

is more sea. 

LXXIV. OLD AND NEW ART — I 

ST. LUKE THE PAINTER 

Give honor unto Luke Evangelist ; 
F(n- he it was (the aged legends say) 
Who first taught Art to fold her hands 

and pray. 
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the 

mist 
Of devious symbols ; but soon having 

wist 
How sky-breadth and field-silence and 

tins day 
Are symbols also in some deeper way. 
She looked through these to God and 

was God's priest. 
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk. 
And she sought talismans, and turned 

in vain 
To soulless self-reflections of man's 

skill,— 
Yet now, in this tlie twilight, she might 

still 
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again. 
Ere the night cometh and she may not 

w'ork. 

LXXV. OLD AND NEM^ ART— II 

NOT AS THESE 

"I AM not as these are," the poet saith 
In youtli's pride, and the painter, among 

men 
At bay, where never pencil comes nor 

pen, 
And shut about with his own frozen 

breath. 
To others, for whom only rhj'me wins 

faith 
As poets, — only paint as painters, — then 
He turns in the cold silence ; and again 
Shrinking, " I am not as these are," he 

saith. 
And say that this is so, what follows it ? 



For were thine eyes set backwards in 

thine head. 
Such words were well ; but they see on, 

and far. 
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit 
Fair for the Future's track, look thou 

instead, — 
Say thou instead, " I am not as these 

are." 

LXXVI. OLD AND NEW ART— III 

THE HUSBANDMAN 

Though God, as one that is an house- 
holder. 

Called tiiese to labor in his vineyard first, 

Before the husk of darkness was well 
burst 

Bidding them grope their way out and 
bestir, 

(Who, questioned of their wages, ans- 
wered, "Sir, 

Unto each man a penny : ") though the 
worst 

Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry 
thirst 

Though God hath since found none such 
as these were 

To do tlieir work like them : — Because 
of this 

Stand not ye idle in the market-place. 

Wliich of ye knoweth he is not tliat last 

Who may be first by faith and will ? — 
yea, his 

The hand which after the appointed 
d ays 

And hours shall give a Future to their 
Past? 

Lxxvii. soul's beauty 

(Sibylla Pahnifera) 

Under the arch of Life, where love and 

death. 
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I 

saw 
Beauty enthroned ; and though her gaze 

struck awe, 
I drew it in as simply as my breath. 
Hers are the eyes which, over and 

beneath. 
The sky and sea bend on thee, — which 

can diaw% 
By sea or sky or woman, to one law, 
The allotted bondman of her palm and 

wa'eatii. 
This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 
Thy voice and hand shake still; — long 

known to thee 



ROSSETTI 



805 



By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the 

beat 
Following lier daily of thy heart and 

feet, 
How passionately and irretrievably, 
In wliat fond flight, how many ways 

and days ! 

Lxxviii. body's beauty 
(LUith) 

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith. it is told 
(The witcli he loved before the gift of 

Eve,) 
That, ere the snake's, lier sweet tongue 

could deceive, 
And her enchanCed hair was the first 

gold. 
And still she sits, young while the earth 

is old, 
And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
Draws men to watch the bright web 

slie can weave. 
Till heart and body and life are in its 

hold. 
The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for 

wliere 
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed 

scent 
And soft-slied kisses and soft sleep shall 

snare ? 
Lo ! as that youtli's eyes burned at 

tliine, so went 
1 Thy spell through him, and left his 

r straight neck bent 

And round his heart one strangling 
golden hair. 

LXXXI. MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS 

What place so strange, — though unre- 

vealed snow 
With unimaginable fires arise 
At the earlii's end, — wliat passion of 

surprise 
Like frost-bound fire-girt scenes of long 

ago ? 
Lo ! this is none but I this hour ; and lo ! 
This is the very place which to mine 

eyes 
Tiiose nioital houi's in vain immortalize, 
'Mid hurrying crowds, with what alone 

I know. 
Cit3% of thine a single simple door, 
By some new Power reduplicate, must 

be 
Even yet my life-porch in eternity, 
Even with one presence filled, as once 

of yore : 



Or mocking winds whirl round a chafl'- 

strown floor 
Thee and thy years and these my words 

and me. 

LXXXII. HOARDED JOY 

I SAID : " Nay, pluck not, — let the first 

fruit be ; 
Even as tliou sayest, it is sweet and red. 
But let it ripen still. The tree's bent 

head 
Sees in tlie stream its own fecundity 
And bides the day of fulness. Shall 

not we 
At the sun's hour that day possess the 

shade. 
Ami claim our fruit before its ripeness 

fade. 
And eat it from the branch and praise 

the tree ? " 
I say : " Alas ! our fruit hath wooed the 

sun 
Too long, — 't is fallen and floats adown 

the stream. 
Lo, the last clusters ! Pluck them 

every one, 
And let us sup with summer ; ere the 

gleam 
Of autumn set the year's pent sorrow 

free. 
And the woods wail like echoes from 

the sea." 

LXXXIII. BARREN SPRING 

Once more the changed year's turning 
wheel returns : 

And as a girl sails balanced in the wind, 

And now before and now again behind 

Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that 
laugi)S and burns. — 

So Spring comes merry towards me here, 
but earns 

No answering smile from me, whose life 
is twin'd 

With the dead boughs that winter still 
must bind, 

And wlioni to-day the Spring no more 
concerns. 

Behold, this crocus is a withering flame ; 

This snowdrop, snow ; this apple-blos- 
som's part 

To breed the fruit that breeds the ser- 
pent's art. 

Nay, for tliese Spring-flowers, turn thy 
face from them , 

Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem 

The white cup shrivels round the golden 
heart. 



8o6 



BRITISH POETS 



LXXXIV. FAREWELL TO THE GLEN 

Sweet stream-fed glen, why say " fare- 
well " to thee 
Who far'st so well and find'st for ever 

smooth 
The brow of Time where man may read 

no ruth ? 
Nay, do thou rather say " farewell " to 

me, 
Who now fare forth in bitterer fantasy 
Than erst was mine where other shade 

might soothe 
By other streams, what while in fragrant 

youth 
The bliss of being sad made melanchol^^ 
And yet, farewell ! For better shalt thou 

fare 
When children bathe sweet faces in thy 

flow 
And happy lovers blend sweet sliadows 

there 
In hovxrs to come, than when an hour 

ago 
Thine echoes had but one man's sighs to 

bear 
And thy trees whispered wliat he feared 

to know. 

LXXXVL LOST DAYS 

The lost days of my life until to-day, 
What were they, could I see them on 

the street 
Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of 

wheat 
Sown once for food but trodden into 

clay ? 
Or golden coins squandered and still to 

pay? 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty 

feet? 
Or such spilt water as in dreams must 

cheat 
The undying throats of Hell, athirst 

alway ? 
I do not see them here : but after death 
God knows I know the faces I sliall see. 
Each one a murdered self, with low 

last breath. 
" I am thyself, — what hast thou done 

to me ? " 
" And I — and I — thyself," (lo ! each one 

saith,) 
" And thou thyself to all eternity ! " 

LXXXIX. THE TREES OF THE GARDEN 

Ye who have passed Deatli's haggard 
hills ; and ye 



Whom trees that knew your sires shall 

cease to know 
And still stand silent : — is it all a show, — 
A wisp that laughs upon tlie wall ? — 

decree 
Of some inexorable supremacj* 
Which ever, as man strains his blind 

surmise 
From depth to ominous depth, looks 

past Jiis ej^es, 
Sphinx-faced with unabaslied augury? 
Nay, rather question the Earth's self. 

Invoke 
The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown 

to-day 
Whose roots are liillocks where the 

cliildren plaj' ; 
Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what 

yoke 
Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering 

gems, shall wage 
Their journey still when his boughs 

shrink with age. 

XC. ' ' RETRO ME, SATHAN A ! " 

Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy- 
curled , 

Stooping against the wind, a charioteer 

Is snatched from out his chariot by the 
hair, 

So shall Time be ; and as the void car, 
hurled 

Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the 
world : 

Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air. 

It shall be souglit and not found any- 
where. 

Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft un- 
furled. 

Thy perilous wings can beat and break 
like latli 

Much mightiness of men to win thee 
praise. 

Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow 
waj's. 

Thou still, upon the broad vine-shel- 
tered path, 

Mayst wait the turning of tlie phials of 
wrath 

For certain years, for certain months 
and days. 

XCI. LOST ON BOTH SIDES 

As when two men have loved a woman 

well. 
Each hating each, througli Love's and 

Death's deceit ; 



ROSSETTI 



807 



Since not for eitlier this stark marriage- 
sheet 

And the long pauses of this wedding- 
bell ; 

Yet o'er her grave the night and day 
dispel 

At last their feud forlorn, with cold and 
heat 

Nor other than dear friends to death 
may fleet 

The two lives left that most of her can 
tell :— 

So separate hopes, which in a soul had 
wooed 

The one same Peace, strove with each 
other long, 

And Peace before their faces perished 
since : 

So through that soul, in restless brother- 
hood. 

They roam together now, and wind 
among 

Its bye-streets, knocking at the dusty 
inns. 

XCIV. MICHELANGELO'S KISS 

Great Michelangelo, with age grown 
bleak 

And uttermost labors, having once o'er- 
said 

All grievous memories on his long life 
shed, 

This worst regret to one true heart could 
speak : — 

Tiiat when, with sorrowing love and re- 
verence meek. 

He stooped o'er sweet Colonna's dying 
bed. 

His Muse and doniinant Lady, spirit- 
wed, — 

Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or 
cheek. 

O Buonarrotti, — good at Art's fire- 
wheels 

To ui'ge her chariot ! — even thus the 
Soul, 

Touching at length some sorely-chast- 
ened goal, 

Earns oftenest but a little : her appeals 

Were deep and mute, — lowly her claim. 
Let be : 

What holds for her Death's garner ? 
And for thee ? 

XCVI. LIFE THE BELOVED 

As thy friend's face, witli shadow of soul 

o'erspread, [hath been 

Somewhile unto thy sight perchance 



Ghastly and strange, yet never so is 
seen 

In thought, but to all fortunate favor 
wed ; 

As thy love's death-bound features never 
dead 

To memory's glass return, but con- 
travene 

Frail fugitive days, and alway keep, I 
ween, 

Than all new^ life a livelier lovelihead : — 

So Life herself, tliy spirit's friend and 
love. 

Even still as Spring's authentic har- 
binger 

Glows with fresh hours for hope to glorify; 

Though pale she lay when in the winter 
grove 

Her funeral flowers were snow-flakes 
shed on her 

And the red wings of frost-fire rent the 
sky. 

XCVII. A SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look in my face ; my name is Might- 
have-been ; 

I am also called No-more, Too-late, Fare- 
well ; 

Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 

Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet be- 
tween ; 

Unto thine eyes the glass where that is 
seen 

Which had Life's form and Love's, but 
by my spell 

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. 

Of ultimate things unuttered the frail 
screen. 

Mark me, how still I am ! But should 
there dart 

One moment through thy soul the soft 
surprise 

Of that winged Peace which lulls the 
breath of siglis, — 

Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn 
apart 

Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart 

Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 

XCIX. NEWBORN DEATH— I 

To-day Death seems to me an infant 

child 
Which her worn mother Life upon my 

knee 
Has set to grow my friend and play with 

me ; 
If haply so my heart might be beguil'd 
To find no terrors in a face so mild, — 



8o8 



BRITISH POETS 



If haply so luy weary Iieart might be 
Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee, 

Death, before resentment reconcird. 
How long, O Death ? And shall thy feet 

depart 
Still a young child's with mine, or wilt 

thou stand 
Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my 

heart, 
What time with thee indeed I reach the 

strand 
Of the pale wave which knows thee 

what thou art, 
And drink it in the hollow of thy hand ? 

C. NEWBORN DEATH— II 

And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss, 
With whom, when our first heart beat 
fviU and fast, 

1 wandered till the haunts of men were 

pass'd. 
And in fair places found all bowers amiss 
Till only woods and waves might hear 

our kiss, 
While to the witids all thought of Death 

we cast : — 
Ah, Life ! and must I have from thee at 

last 
No smile to greet me and no babe but 

this ? 
Lo ! Love, the child once ours ; and 

Song, whose hair 
Blew like a flame and blossomed like a 

wreath ; 
And Art, whose eyes were worlds by 

God found fair ; 
These o'er the book of Nature mixed their 

breath 
With neck-twined arms, as oft we 

watched them there : 
And did these die that thou mightst 

bear me Death? 

CI. THE ONE HOPE 

When vain desire at last and vain re- 
gret 

Go hand in hand to death, and all is 
vain, 

Wiiat shall assuage the unforgotten pain 

And teach tlie unforgetful to forget ? 

Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long 
unmet, — 

Or may the soul at once in a green plain 

Stoop througli the s^iray of some sweet 
life-fountain 

And cull the dew-drenched flowering 
amulet ? 



Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden 

air 
Between the scriptured petals sof ly 

blown 
Peers breathless for the gift of grace 

unknown. 
Ah ! let none other alien spell soe'er 
But only the one Hope's one name be 

there, — 
Not less nor more, but even that word 

alone. 1869, 1870, 1881. i 

THE CLOUD CONFINES 

The day is dark and the night 

To him tliat would searcii their heart ; 

No lips of cloud that will part 
Nor morning song in the light : 

Only, gazing alone. 

To liim wild shadows are shown, 

Deep under deep unknown 
And height above unknown height. 

Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way, 

Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

The Past is over and fled ; 

Named new, we name it the old ; 

Thereof some tale hath been told. 
But no word comes from the dead ; 

Whether at all they be. 

Or whetlier as bond or free, 

Or whether they too were we, 
Or by what spell they have sped. 

Still we say as we go,— 

" Strange to think by the way. 

Whatever there is to know. 
That shall we know one day." 

What of the heart of hate 

That beats in thy breast, O Time? — 

Red strife from the furthest prime, 
And anguish of fierce debate ; 

War that shatters her slain, 

And i)eace that grinds tiiem as grain. 

And eyes fixed ever in vain 
On the jiitiless ej'es of Fate. 

Still we say as Ave go, — 

" Strange to think by the way, 

1 Sixteen Sonnets, Numbers 25, 39, 47, 49-52, 63, 
65, 67, 86, 91, 97, 99, and 100, were published in the 
Fortitighily Review. 1869. Fifty Sonnets (for the 
exact list see W. BI. Rossetti's edition of the 
Collected Works, I, 517) were published, witli 
eleven lyrics, as " Sonnets and Songs towards a 
work to be entitled The House of Life,'" in the 
Poems. 1870. The House of Life, as it now stands, 
cnisistlng of sonnets only, was published in 
Ballads and Soimets, 1881. 



ROSSETTI 



809 



I 



Wliatever there is to kuow, 
That shall we know oiie day." 

Wliat of the heart of love 
That bleeds in thy breast. O Man ? 
Tliy kisses snatclied 'neatli tlie ban 

Of fangs that mock them above : 
Tliy bells prolonged unto knells, 
Thy Iiope that a breatli dispels, 
Tiiy l)itter forlorn farewells 

And the empty echoes thereof ? 

Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way, 

Wliatever there is to know, 
Tliat shall we know one day." 

The sky leans dumb on tlie sea, 
Aweary with all its wings ; 
And oh ! the song tlie sea sings 

Is dark everlastingly. 
Our past is clean forgot. 
Our jiresent is and is not. 
Our future's a sealed seed plot. 

And what betwixt them are we ? — 

We who say as we go, — 

"Strange to think by tlie way, 

Wliatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 
1872. 

THREE SHADOWS 

I LOOKED and saw your eyes 

In the shadow of your hair. 
As a traveller sees the stream 

In the shadow of the wood ; 
And I said, " My faint heart sighs, 

Ah me ! to linger there, 
To drink deep and to dream 

In that sweet solitude." 

I looked and saw your lieart 

In the shadow of your eyes, 
As a seeker .sees the gold 

III the sliadow of the stream ; 
And I said, '" Ah me? wliat art 

Should win the immortal prize, 
Whose want must make life cold 

And Heaven a hollow dream ? " 

I looked and saw your love 

In the shadow of your heart, 
As a diver sees the pearl 

In the shadow of the sea ; 
And I murmured, not above 

My breath, but all apart, — 
" All ! you can love, true girl, 

And is your love for me ? " 

1881, 



INSOMNIA 

Thin are the night-skirts left behind 
By daybreak hours that onward creep, 
And thin, alas ! the shred of sleep 

That wavers with the sjiirit's wind : 

But in half-dreams that shift and roll 
And still remember and forget, 

My soul this hour has drawn your .soul 
A little nearer yet. 

Our lives, most dear, are never near, 
Our thoughts are never far apart, 
Though all that draws us heart to heart 

Seems fainter now and now more clear. 

To-night Love claims his full control, 
And with desire and with regret 

My soul this hour has drawn your soul 
A little nearer yet. 

Is there a home where heavy earth 
Melts to bright air that breathes no 

pain. 
Where water leaves no thirst again 
And s[>ringing fire is Love's new birth? 
If faith long bound to one true goal 
May there at length its hope beget. 
My soul that hour shall draw your soul 
For ever nearer yet. 1881. 

CHIMES 



Honey-flowers to the honey-comb 
And the honey-bees from iionie. 

A honey-comb and a honey-flower, 
And the bee shall have his hour. 

A honeyed heart for the honey-comb, 
And the humming bee flies home. 

A lieavy heart in the honey-flower, 
And the bee has iiad his hour. 



A honey-cell's in the honeysuckle, 
And the honey-bee knows it well. 

The honey-comb has a heart of honey, 
And the humming bee 's so bonny. 

A honey-flower 's the honeysuckle, 
And the bee 's in the honey-bell. 

The honeysuckle is sucked of honey, 
And the bee is heavy and bonny. 



8io 



BRITISH POETS 



Brown shell first for the butterfly 
And a bright wing by and by. 

Butterfly, good-by to ,your shell. 
And, bright wings, speed you well. 

Bright lamplight for tlie butterfly 
And a burnt wing by and by. 

Butterfly, alas for your shell, 
And, bright wings, fare you well. 



Lost love-labor and lullaby, 
And lowly let love lie. 

Lost love-morrow and love-fellow 
And love's life lying low. 

Lovelorn labor and life laid by 
And lowly let love lie. 

Late love-longing and life-sorrow 
And love's life lying low. 



Beauty's body and benison 
With a bosom-flower new-blown. 

Bitter beavity and blessing bann'd 
With a breast to burn and brand. 

Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown 
With a bare white breast of bone. 

Barren beauty and bower of sand 
With a blast on either hand. 

VI 

Buried bars in the breakwater 
And bubble of the brimming weir. 

Body's blood in the breakwater 
And a buried body's bier. 

Buried bones in the breakwater 
And bubble of the brawling weir. 

Bitter tears in the breakwater 
And a breaking heart to bear. 



Hollow heaven and the hurricane 
And hurry of the heavy rain. 

Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven 
And a heavy rain hard-driven. 



The heavy rain it hurries amain 
And heaven and the hurricane. 

Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow 
And the heavy rain to follow. 1881. 

SOOTHSAY 

Let no man ask thee of anything 

Not yearborn between Spring and 

Spring. 
More of all worlds than he can know, 
Each day the single sun doth show." 
A trustier gloss than thou canst give 
From all wise scrolls demonstrative. 
The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. 

Let no man awe thee on any height 

Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. 

The dust his heel holds meet for thy 

brow 
Hath all of it been what both are now ; 
And thou and he ma}' plague together 
A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather 
When none that is now knows sound or 

sight. 

Crave thou no dower of earthly things 

Unworthy Hope's imaginings. 

To have brought true birth of Song to be 

And to have won hearts to Poesy, 

Or anywhere in the sun or rain 

To have loved and been beloved again. 

Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. 

Tlie wild waifs cast up by the sea 

Are diverse ever seasonably. 

Even so the soul-tides still may land 

A different drift upon the sand. 

But one the sea is evermore : 

And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore. 

As the sea's life, th}' soul in thee. 

Say, hast thou pride ? How then may fit 
Thj^ mood witli flatterer's silk-spun wit? 
Haply tlie sweet voice lifts thy crest, 
A breeze of fame made manifest. 
Nay, but then chaf 'st at flattery ? Pause : 
Be sure thy wrath is not because 
It makes thee feel thou lovest it. 

Let thy soul strive that still the same 

Be early friendship's sacred flame. 

The affinities have strongest i>art 

In youth, and draw men heart to heart: 

As life wears on and finds no rest, 

The individual in each breast 

Is tyrannous to sunder them. 

In the life-drama's stern cue-call, 
A friend 's a part well- prized bj' all : 



ROSSETTI 



And if tliou meet an enemy, 

Wliat art thou that none such should be ? 

Even so : but if the two parts run 

Into each other and grow one, 

Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. 

Whate'er by other's need is claimed 
More than isy thine, — to him unblamed 
Resign it : and if he should hold 
What more than he thou lack'st, bread, 

gold, 
Or any good whereby we live, — 
To thee such substance let him give 
Freely : nor he nor thou be sluuned. 

Strive that thy works prove equal : lest 
That work which thou hast done the best 
Should come to be to thee at length 
(Even as to envy seems the strength 
Of others) hateful and abhorr'd, — 
Thine own above thyself made lord, — 
Of self-i'ebuke the bitterest. 

Unto the man of yearning thought 
And aspiration, to do nought 
Is in itself almost an act, — 
Being chasm-fire and cataract 
Of the soul's utter depths unseal'd. 
Yet woe to tliee if once thou yield 
Unto tlie act of doing nought ! 

H(jw callous seems beyond revoke 
The clock with its last listless stroke ! 
How much too late at length ! — to trace 
The hour on its forewarning face. 
The thing thou hast not dared to do ! . . . . 
Behold, this may be thvis ! Ere true 
It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. 

Let lore of all Theology 

Be to thy soul what it can be : 

But know, — the Power that fashions man 

Measured not out thy little span 

For thee to take the meting-rod 

In turn, and so approve on God 

Thy science of Theometry. 

To God at best, to Chance at worst. 
Give thanks for good things, last as first. 
But windstrown blossom is that good 
Whose apple is not gratitude. 
Even if no prayer uplift thy face. 
Let the sweet right to render grace 
As thy soul's cherished child be nurs'd. 

Didst ever say, " Lo, I forget? " 
Such thought was to I'emember yet. 
As in a gravegarth. count \,o see 
Tlie monuments of memory. 



Be this thy soul's appointed scope : — 
Gaze onward without claim to hope, 
Nor, gazing backward, court regret. 

1881. 
ON BURNS 

In whomsoe'er, since Poesj'' began, 
A Poet most of all men we may scan. 
Burns of all poets is the most a Man . 

1886. 

FIVE ENGLISH POETS 

I. THOMAS CHATTERTON 

With Shakespeare's manhood at a boy's 
wild heart, — 

Through Hamlet's doubt to ShakespeSre 
near allied, 

And kin to Milton through his Satan's 
pride. — 

At Death's sole door he stooped, and 
craved a dart ; 

And to the dear new bower of England's 
art, — 

Even to that shrine Time else had dei- 
fied. 

The unuttered heart that soared against 
his side, — 

Drove the fell point, and smote life's 
seals apart. 

Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatter- 
ton ; 

The angel-trodden stair thy soul could 
trace 

Up Redcliffe's spire : and in the world's 
armed space 

Thy gallant sword-play : — these to many 
an one 

Are sweet for ever ; as thy grave un- 
known 

And love-di-eam of thine unrecorded 
face. 

II. WILLIAM BLAKE 

(To Frederick Shields, on his Sketch of 
Blake's work-room and death-room, 3 ForN- 
TAiN Court, Strand.) 

This is the place. Even here the daunt- 
less soul. 

The unflinching hand, wrouglit on ; till 
in that nook, 

As on that very bed, his life partook 

New birth, and passed. Yon river's 
dusky shoal. 

Whereto the close-built coiling lanes 
unroll. 

Faced his work-window, whence his 
eyes would stare, 



8l2 



BRITISH POETS 



Thought- wandering, unto nouglit that 

met them there, 
But to tlie unfettered irreversible goal. 
This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the 

cloud 
Of his soul writ and limned ; this other 

one. 
His true wife's charge, full oft to their 

abode 
Yielded for daily bread the martyr's 

stone, 
Ere yet their food might be that Bread 

alone, 
The words now home-speecli of the 

mouth of God. 

*II1. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

His Soul fared forth (as from the deep 
home-grove 

The father-songster plies the hour-long 
quest,) 

To feed liis soul-brood hungei'ing in the 
nest ; 

But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, 
above 

Tlieir callow fledgling progeny still hove 

With tented roof of wings and fostering 
breast 

Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly 
blest 

From Heaven their growth, whose food 
was Human Love. 

Yet ah ! Like desert pools that show 
the stars 

Once in long leagues. — even such the 
scarce-snatched hours 

Which deepening pain left to his lord- 
liest powers :— 

Heaven lost tlirougli sj)ider-trammelled 
prison-bars. 

Six years, from sixty saved ! Yet kin- 
dling skies 

Own tliem, a beacon to our centuries. 

IV. JOHN KEATS 

The weltering London ways where chil- 
dren weep 

And girls whom none call maidens 
laugh, ^ — strange road 

Miring his outward steps, who inly 
trode 

The bright Castalian brink and Latmos' 
steep : — 

Even such his life's cross-paths ; till 
deathly deep 

He toiled til rough sands of Lethe; and 
long pain, 



Weary with labor spurned and love 
found vain, 

In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrap- 
ped his sleep. 

pang-dowered Poet, whose reverber- 

ant lips 

And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's 
eclipse, — 

Thou wlioin tlie daisies glor/ in grow- 
ing o'er. — 

Their fragrance clings around thy name, 
not writ 

But rumor'd in water, while the fame 
of it 

Along Time's flood goes echoing ever- 
more. 

V. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

(INSCRIPTION FOR THE COUCH, STILL PRESERVED, 
ON WHICH HE PASSED THE LAST NIGHT OF HIS 
LIFE.) 

'TwiXT those twin worlds, — the world of 

Sleep, which gave 
No dream to warm, — the tidal world of 

Death, 
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, re- 

plenisheth, — 
Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the 

wave. 
Rose from this couch that morn. Ah ! 

did he brave 
Only tlie sea? — or did man's deed of hell 
Engulf his bark 'mid mists impene- 
trable? . . . 
No eye discerned, nor any power might 

save. 
When that mist cleared, O Shelley ! 

what dread veil 
Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling 

Truth 
Reigned sovereign guide through thy 

brief ageless youtli ? 
AVas the Truth thy Truth, Shelley?— 

Hush ! All-Hail, 
Past doubt, thou gav'st it ; and in 

Truth's bright sphere 
Art first of praisers, being most praised 

here. 1881. 

THE KING'S TRAGEDY 

James I of Scots.— 20th February, 
1437. 

1 Catherine am a Douglas born, 
A name to all Scots dear ; 

And Kate Barlass they've called me now 
Through many a waning year. 



ROSSETTi 



813 



This old arm's withered now. 'T was 
once 

Most deft 'mong maidens all 
To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, 

To smite the palm-play ball. 

In hall adown the close-linked dance 

It lias shone most white and fair ; 
It lias been the rest for a true lord's head, 
And many a sweet babe's nnrsing-bed, 
And the bar to a King's cliambere. 

Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, 

And hark with bated brenth 
How good King James, King Robert's 
son, 

Was foully done to death. 

Through all the days of liis gallant youth 
Tlie princel}^ James was pent. 

By his friends at first and tlien by his 
foes. 
In long imprisonment. 

For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, 
Bj' treason's murderous brood 

Was slain ; and the fatlier quaked for 
the child 
With the royal mortal blood. 

I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care. 

Was his childhood's life assured ; 
And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, 
Proud England's King, 'neatli the south- 
ron yoke 
His youth for long years immured. 

Yet in all things meet for a kingly man 

Himself did he approve ; 
And the nightingale through his prison- 
wall 

Taught him both lore and love. 

For once, wiienthe bird's song drew him 
close 

To the opened window-pane. 
In her bowers beneath a lady stood, 
A light of life to his sorrowful mood. 

Like a lily amid the rain. 

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note. 

He framed a sweeter Song, 
More sweet than ever a poet's heart 

Gave yet to the English tongue. 

She w^as a lady of royal blood ; 

And when, past sorrow and teen. 
He stood where still through his crown- 
less years 

His Scottish realm had been, 



At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, 
A lieart-wed King and Queen. 

But the bird may fall from the bough of 
youth, 
And song be turned to moan, 
And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow 

of Hate, 
When the tempest-waves of a troubled 
State 
Are beating against a throne. 

Yet well they loved ; and the god of Love, 
Whom well the King had sung, 

Blight find on the earth no truer hearts 
His lowliest swains among. 

From the days when first she rode abroad 
With Scottish maids in her train, 

I Catherine Douglas won the trust 
Of my mistress, sweet Queen Jane. 

And oft she sighed, "To be born a 
King I " 

And oft along the way 
Wlien slie saw the homely lovers pass 

She has said, " Alack the day ! " 

Years waned, — the loving and toiling 
years : 
Till England's wrong renewed 
Drove James, by outrage cast on his 
crown. 
To the open field of feud. 

'T was when the King and liishost were 
met 

At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold. 
The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp 

With a tale of dread to be told. 

And she showed him a secret letter writ 
Tliat spoke of treasonous strife. 

And how a band of his noblest lords 
Were sworn to take his life. 

" And it may be here or it may be tliere, 
In the camp or the court," she said : 

" But for my sake come to your people's 
arms 
And guard your royal head." 

Quoth he, " 'T is the fifteenth day of the 
siege. 
And the castle 's nigh to yield." 
" O face your foes on your throne," she 
cried, 
"And show the power you wield ; 
And under j^our Scottish jieople's love 
You sliall sit as under your shield." 



;i4 



BRITISH POETS 



At the fair Queen's side I stood that day 
When lie bade them raise the siege, 

And back to liis Court he sped to know 
How the lords would meet their Liege. 

But when he summoned his Parliament, 
The louring brows hung round. 

Like clouds tliat circle the mountain- 
head 
Ere the first low thunders sound. 

For he had tamed the nobles' lust 
And curbed their power and pride, 

And reached out an arm to right the 
poor 
Through Scotland far and wide ; 

And many a lordly wa-ong-doer 
By the headsman's axe had died. 

'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, 
The bold o'ermastering man : — 

" O King, in the name of your Three 
Estates 
I set you under their ban ! 

" For, as your lords made oath to you 

Of service and fealty. 
Even in likewise you pledged your oath 

Tlieir faithful sire to be : — 

" Yet all we here that are nobly sprung 
Have mourned dear kith and kin 

Since first for the Scottish Barons' curse 
Did your bloody rule begin." 

Witli that he laid his hands on his 
King :— 
" Is this not so, my lords ?" 
But of all who had sworn to league with 
him 
Not one spake back to his words. 

Quoth the King : — " Thou speak'st but 
for one Estate, 
Nor doth it avow thy gage. 
Let my liege lords hale this traitor 
hence ! " 
The Greeme fired dark with rage : — 
" Who works for lesser men than liimself , 
He earns but a witless wage ! " 

But soon from the dungeon where he lay 

He won by privy plots, 
And forth he fled with a price on his 
head 

To the country of the Wild Scots. 

And word there came from Sir Robert 
Graeme 
To the King at Edinbro' : — 



" No Liege of mine thou art ; but I see 
From this day forth alone in thee 
God's creature, my mortal foe. 

" Through thee are my wife and children 
lost, 

My heritage and lands ; 
And when my God shall show me a way, 
Thyself my mortal foe will I slay 

With these my proper hands." 

Against the coming of Cliristmastide 
That year the King bade call 

I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth 
A solemn festival. 

And we of his household rode with him 

In a close-ranked company ; 
But not till the sun liad sunk from his 
throne 

Did we reach the Scottish Sea. 

That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 
'Neath a toilsome moon half seen ; 

The cloud stooped low and the surf 
rose liigh : 

And where tliere was a line of the sky, 
Wild wings loomed dark between. 

And on a rock of the black beach-side, 
B\^ the veiled moon dimly lit, . 

There was something seemed to heave 
with life 
As tlie King drew nigh to it. 

And was it only the tossing furze 
Or brake of the waste sea- wold ? 

Or was it an eagle bent to the blast ? 

When near we came, we knew it at last 
For a woman tattered and old. 

But it seemed as though by a fire within 
Her writhen limbs were wrung ; 

And as soon as the King was close to her. 
She stood up gaunt and strong. 

'T was then the moon sailed clear of the 
rack 

On high in her hollow dome ; 
And still as aloft with hoary crest 

Each clamorous wave rang home, 
Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed 

Amid the champing foam. 

And the woman held his eyes with her 
eyes : — 
" O King, thou art come at last ; 
But thy wraith has haunted the Scottish 
Sea 
To my sight for four years past. 



ROSSETTI 



815 



" Four years it is since first I met, 
'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhii, 

A shape whose feet chmg close in a 
shroud, 
And that shape for thine I knew. 

" A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle 
I saw thee pass in the breeze, 

With the cerecloth risen above thy feet 
And wound about thy knees, 

" And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, 

As a wanderer without rest, 
Thou cam'st with both tliine arms i' 
the shroud 

That clung high up thy breast. 

" And in this hour I find thee here, 
And well mine eyes maj^ note 

That the winding-sheet hath passed thy 
breast 
And risen around thy throat. 

" And when I meet thee again, O King, 

That of death hast sucli sore drouth, — 

Except thou turn again on this shore, — 

The winding-sheet shall have moveil 

once more 

And covered thine eyes and mouth. 

"O King, whom poor men bless for 
their King, 
Of thy fate be not so fain ; 
But these my words for God's message 

take. 
And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake 
Who rides beside thy rein ! " 

While the w^oman spoke, the King's 
horse reared 
As if it would breast the sea. 
And the Queen turned pale as she heard 
on the gale 
The voice die dolorously. 

When the woman ceased, the steed was 
still, 

But the King gazed on her yet. 
And in silence save for the wail of the sea 

His eyes and her eyes met. 

At last he said : — " God's ways are His 
own; 

Man is but shadow and dust. 
Last night I prayed by His altar-stone ; 
To-night I wend to the feast of His Son ; 

And in Him I set my trust. 

" I have held my people in sacred charge. 
And have not feared the sting 



Of proud men's hate, — to His will resign'd 
Who has but one same death for a hind 
And one same death for a King. 

• ' And if God in His wisdom have brought 
close 

The dax when I must die. 
That day by water or fire or air 
My feet shall fall in the destined snare 

Wherever my road may lie. 

" What man can say but the Fiend hath 
set 

Thy sorcery on my path, 
yiy heart with the fear of death to fill, 
And turn me against God's very will 

To sink in His burning wrath ? " 

The woman stood as the train rode past, 
And moved nor limb nor eye ; 

And when we were shipped, we saw her 
there 
Still standing against the sky. 

As the ship made way, the moon once 
more 
Sank slow in her rising pall ; 
And I thought of the shrouded wraith 
of the King, 
And I said, " The Heavens know all." 

And now, ye lasses, must ye hear 
How mj' name is Kate Barlass : — 

But a little thing, when all the tale 
Is told of the weary mass 

Of crime and woe which in Scotland's 
realm 
God's will let come to pass. 

'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth 
That the King and all his Court 

Were met, the Christmas Feast being 
done. 
For solace and disport. 

'T was a wind-wild eve in February, 
And against the casement-pane 

The branches smote like summoning 
hands 
And muttered the driving rain. 

And when the wind swooped over the 
lift 

And made the whole heaven frown, 
It seemed a grip was laid on the walls 

To tug the housetop down. 

And the Queen was there, more stately 
fair 
Than a lily in garden set ; 



8i6 



BRITISH POETS 



And the king was lotli to stir from her 

side ; 
For as on the day when slie was liis bride, 
Even so he loved her yet. 

And the Earl of Athole, the King's false 
friend, 

Sat with him at the board ; * 
And Robert Stuart the clianiberlain 

Who had sold his sovereign Lord. 

Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber 
there 
Would fain have told him all,. 
And vainly four times that night he 
strove 
To reach the King through the hall. 

But the wine is bright at the goblet's 
briin 

Though the poison lurk beneath ; 
And the apples still are red on tlie tree 
Within whose shade may the adder be 

That sliall turn thy life to death. 

There was a knight of the King's fast 
friends 

Whom he called the King of Love ; 
And to sucli bright clieer and courtesy 

That name might best behove. 

And the King and Queen both loved 
him well 
For his gentle knightliness ; 
And with him the King, as that eve 
woi-e on, 
Was playing at the chess. 

And the King said, (for he thouglit to 
jest 

And soothe the Queen thereby ;) — 
*' In a book 't is writ that this same year 

A King shall in Scotland die. 

" And I have pondered the matter o'er, 
And this have I found. Sir Hugh, — 

There are but two Kings on Scottish 
ground. 
And tliose Kings are I and you. 

" And I have a wife and a newborn heir, 
And you are yourself alone ; 

So stand you stark at my side with me 
To guard our double throne. 

*' For here sit I and my wife and child. 
As well your heart shall approve. 

In full surrender and soothfastness, 
Beneath your Kingiloni of Love." 



And the Knight lauglied, and the Queen 
too smiled ; 
But I knew her heavy thought, 
And I strove to find in the good King's 
jest 
What cheer might thence be wrought. 

And I said, "My Liege, for the Queen's 
dear love 
Now sing the song that of old 
You made, when a captive Prince j'ou 

lay, 
And the nightingale sang sweet on the 
spray. 
In Windsor's castle-hold." 

Then he smiled the smile I knew so well 
When he thought to please the Queen ; 

The smile which under all bitter frowns 
Of hate that rose between. 

For ever dwelt at the poet's heart 
Like the bird of love unseen. 

And he kissed lier hand and took his 
harp. 
And the music sweetly rang ; 
And when tlie song burst fortli, it 
seemed 
'T was the nightingale that sang. 

" Wors]ii2), ye lovers, on this May : 
Of bliss your kalends are begun : 
Sing with us, Airay. Winter, away ! 
Come, Summer, the sweet season and 

sun ! 
Awake for slianie, — your heaven is 
icon, — 
A7id <(mo7-ously your heads lift all : 
Tliunk Love, that you to his grace doth 
call ! " 

But when he bent to the Queen, and 
sang 
The speech whose praise was hers. 
It seemed his voice was tlie voice of the 
Spring 
And the voice of the bygone years. 

" The fairest and the freshest flotver 
That ever I saw before that hour. 
The which o' the sudden made to start 
The bloi>d of my body to my heart. 
****** 

Ah stveet, are ye a ivorldly creature 
Or heavenly thing in form of nature ? " 

And the song was long, and richly stored 

Witli wonder and beauteous things : 
And tlie harp was tuned to every change 



ROSSETTl 



817 



Of iiiiustrel mini.sterings ; 
But wlien he spoke of tlie Queen at the 
hist. 
Its strings were his own heart-strings. 

" Umoorthy hat only of her grace. 

Upon Love's rock thaVs easy and sure, 

III guerdon of all my love's space 
She took ine her hiuable creature. 
Thus fell my blissfnl aventure 

In youth of love that from day to day 

Flowereth aye new, and further I say. 

" To reckon all the circumstance 
As it happed when lessen gan my sore. 

Of my rancor and wofnl chance. 
It were too long, — I have done therefor. 
And of this flower I say no more 

Bid unto my help her heart hath tended 

And even from death her man defended.'' 

"Aye, even from death," to myself I 
said ; 
For I thought of the day wlien she 
Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' 
siege. 
Of the fell confederacy. 

But Death even then took aim as he sang 

With an arrow deadly bright ; 
And the grinning skull lurked grimly 

aloof, 
Antl tlie wings were spread far over the 
roof 
More dark than the winter night. 

Yet truly along the amorous song 
Of Love's high pomp and state, 

There were words of Fortune's trackless 
doom 
And the dreadful face of Fate. 

And oft have I lieard again in dreams 

The voice of dire appeal 
In which the King then sang of the pit 

That is under Fortune's wlieel. 

" And under the tvheel beheld I there 
An ugly Pit as deep as hell. 

That to behold I quaked for fear : 
And this I heard, thai wJio therein fell 
Came no more up, tidings to tell : 

Whereat, astoiind of the fearfid sight, 

I loist not lohat to do for fright.''' 

And oft has my thought called up again 
These words of the changeful song : — 
" Wist thou thy pain and thy travail 
To come, ivell might'st thou weep and 
wail ! " 
And our wail, O God ! is long. 

52 



But tlie song's end was all of his love ; 

And well his lieart was grac'd 
With her smiling lips and her tear-bright 
eyes 

As his arm went round her waist. 

And on the swell of her long fair throat 

Close clung the necklet-chain 
As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside, 
And in the warmtli of his love and pride 
He kissed her lips full fain. 

And her ti'ue face was a rosy red, 

Tlie very red of the rose 
Tliat, couched on tlie liappy garden-bed, 

In the summer sunlight glows. 

And all the wondrous things of love 
That sang so sweet through the song 

Were in the look that met in their eyes, 
And the look was deep and long. 

"T was then a knock came at the outer 
gate. 
And the visher sought the King. 
"The woman you met by the Scottish 
Sea, 
My Liege, would tell you a thing ; 
And she says that her present need for 
speech 
Will bear no gainsaying." 

And the King said : — "The hour is late ; 
To-morrow will serve, I ween." 
Then he charged the usher strictly, and 
said : 
" No woi'd of this to the Queen." 

But the usher came again to the King, 
" Sliall I call her back? "quoth he : 

" For as she went on her way, she cried, 
• Woe ! Woe ! then the thing must 
be!'" 

And the King paused, but he did not 
speak. 

Then he called for the Voidee-cup : 
And as we heard tlie twelfth hour strike. 
There by true lips and false lips alike 

Was the draught of trust drained up. 

So with reverence meet to King and 
Queen, 

To bed went all from the board ; 
And tlie last to leave of the courtly ti'ain 
Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain 

Who had sold his sovereign lord. 

And all tlie locks of the eliainber-door 
Had the traitor riven and brast ; 



8i8 



BRITISH POETS 



And tliat Fate might win sure way from 

afar, 
He had drawn out every bolt and bar 
Tliat made the entrance fast. 

And now at midnight he stole his way 
To the moat of the outer wall, 

And laid strong liurdles closely across 
Where the traitors' tread should fall. 

But we that were the Queen's bower- 
maids 
Alone were left behind ; 
And with heed we drew the curtains 
close 
Against the winter wind. 

And now that all was still through the 
hall, 

More clearly we heard the rain 
That clamored ever against the glass 

And the boughs that beat on the pane. 

But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, 

And through empty space around 
The shadows cast on tlie arras'd wall 
'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and 
tall 
Like spectres sjirung from the ground. 

And the bed was dight in a deep alcove ; 

And as he stood by the fire 
The king was still in talk witli the Queen 

While he doffed his goodly attire. 

And the song had brought the image 
back 
Of many a bygone year ; 
And many a loving word they said 
With hand in hand and head laid to 
head ; 
And none of us went anear. 

But Love was weeping outside the house, 

A child in the piteous rain ; 
And as he watched the arrow of Death, 
He wailed for his own shafts close in the 
sheath 

That never should fly again. 

And now beneath the window arose 

A wild voice suddenly : 
And the King reared straight, but the 
Queen fell back 

As for bitter dule to dree ; 
And all of us knew the woman's voice 

Who spoke by the Scottish Sea. 

" O King," she cried, "in an evil hour 
They drove me from thy gate ; 



And yet my voice must rise to thine 
ears ; 
But alas ! it comes too late ! 

" Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, 
When tlie moon was dead in the skies 

O King, in a death-light of thine own 
I saw thy shape arise. 

" And in full season, as erst I said, 
The doom had gained its growth ; 

And the shroud had risen above tliy neck 
And covered thine eyes and mouth. 

" And no moon woke, but the pale dawn 
broke, 
And still tliy soul stood there ; 
And I thought its silence cried to mj' 
soul 
As the first rays crowned its hair. 

" Since then have I journeyed fast and 
fain 
In very despite of Fate, 
Lest Hope might still be found in God's 
will : 
But they drove me from thy gate. 

" For every man on God's ground, O 
King, 
His death grows up from his birth 
In a sliadow-plant perpetually ; 
And thine towers high, a black yew- 
tree. 
O'er the Charterhouse of Perth ! " 

That room was built far out from the 
house ; 

And none but we in the room 
Might liear the voice that rose beneath, 

Nor the tread of the coming doom. 

For now there came a torchlight-glare, 
And a clang of arms there came ; 

And not a soul in that space but thought 
Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme. 

Yea. from the country of the Wild Scots, 
O'er mountain, valley, and glen. 

He had brought with him in mvirderous 
league 
Three hundred armed men. 

The King knew all in an instant's flash, 
And like a King did he stand ; 

But there was no armor in all the room, , 
Nor weapon lay to his hand. 

And all we women flew to the door 
And thought to have made it fast : 



ROSSETTI 



819 



But tlie bolts were gone and tlie bars 
were gone 
And the locks were riven and brast. 

And he caught the pale queen in his 
arms 
As tlie iron footsteps fell, — 
Tlien loosed her, standing alone, and 
said, 
" Our bliss was our farewell ! " 

And 'twixt his lips he murmured a 
prayer, 

And lie crossed his brow and breast ; 
And proudly in royal hardihood 
Even so with folded arms lie stood, — 

Tlie prize of the bloody quest. 

Then on me leaped the Queen like a 
deer : 
" Catherine, help ! " she cried. 
And low at his feet we clasped his knees 

Together side by side. 
" Oh ! even a King, for his people's 
sake. 
From treasonous death must hide ! " 

"For her sake most!" I cried, and I 
marked 
The pang that my words would wring. 
And the iron tongs from the chimnej'- 
nook 
I snatched and held to the King : — 
'"Wrench up the plank ! and the vault 
beneath 
Shall yield safe harboring." 

With brows low-bent, from mj"^ eager 
hand 
The heavy heft did he take ; 
And the plank at his feet he wrenched 

and tore ; 
And as he frowned through the open 
floor, 
Again I said, " For her sake ! " 

Then he cried to the Queen, " God's will 
be done ! " 
For her hands were clasped in prayer. 
And down he sprang to the inner crypt ; 
And straight we closed the plank he had 
ripp'd 
And toiled to smoothe it fair. 

(Alas ! in that vault a gap once was 
Wlierethro' the King might have fled ; 

But three days since close- walled had it 
been [therein 

By his will ; for the ball would roll 
When without at the palm he play'd.) 



Then the Queen cried, " Catherine, keep 
the door, 
And I to this will suffice ! " 
At her word I rose all dazed to my 
feet, 
And my heart was fire and ice. 

And louder ever the voices grew, 

And the tramp of men in mail ; 

Until to my brain it seemed to be 

As thougli I tossed on a ship at sea 

In the teeth of a crasliing gale. 

Then back I flew to the rest ; and hard 

We strove with sinews knit 
To force the table against the door ; 

But we might not compass it. 

Then my wild gaze sped far down the 
hall 
To the place of the hearthstone-sill ; 
And the Queen bent ever above tiie 
floor, 
For the plank was rising still. 

And now the rush was heard on the 
stair. 

And " God, what help? " was our cry. 
And was I frenzied or was I bold ? 
I looked at each empty stanchion-hold. 

And no bar but my arm had I ! 

Like iron felt my arm, as through 

The staple I made it pass : — 
Alack ! it was flesh and bone — no more ! 
'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the 
door, 

But I fell back Kate Barlass. 

With that they all thronged into the 
hall. 

Half dim to my failing ken ; 
And the space that was but a void before 

Was a crowd of wrathful men. 
Behind the door I had fall'n and lay. 

Yet my sense was wildly aware. 
And for all the pain of my shattered 
arm 

I never fainted there. 

Even as I fell, my eyes wei-e cast 

Where the King leaped down to the 
pit ; 
And lo ! the plank was smootli in its 
place. 
And the Queen stood far from it. 

And under the litters and through the 
bed 
And within the presses all 



820 



BRITISH POETS 



The traitors sought for the King, and 
pierced 
The arras around the wall. 

And through the chamber they ramped 
and stormed 
Like lions loose in the lair, 
And scarce could trust to their very 
eyes.— 
For beliold ! no King was there. 

Than one of tliem seized the Queen, and 
cried. — 
" Now tell us, where is thy lord ? " 
And he lield tlie sharp point over lier 
lieart : [start. 

She drooped not her eyes nor did she 
But she answered never a word. 

Then the sword half pierced the true 
true breast : 
But it was the Graeme's own son 
Cried, " This is a woman, — we seek a 
man ! " 
And away from her girdle-zone 
He struck the point of the murderous 
steel ; 
And that foul deed was not done. 

And forth flowed all the throiig like a 
sea, 
And 't was'empty space once more ; 
And my e)^es sought out the wounded 
Queen 
As I lay behind the door. 

And I said : " Dear Lady, leave me here. 

For I cannot help j^ou now ; 
But fly wliile you may, and none shall 
reck 

Of my place here lying low." 

And she said, " My Catherine, God help 

thee ! " 

Then she looked to the distant floor. 

And clasping her hands, " Oh God help 

him," 

She sobbed, " for we can no more ! " 

But God He knows what help may mean. 

If it mean to live or to die ; 
And wliat sore sorrow and mighty moan 
On earth it may cost ere yet a throne 

Be filled in His house on high. 

And now tlie ladies fled with the Queen i 

And through the open door 
The night-wind wailed round the empty 
room 

And the rushes shook on tlie floor. 



And the bed drooped low iu the dark re- 
cess 
Whence the arras was rent away ; 
And the firelight still siione over the 
space 
Where our hidden secret lay. 

And tlie rain had ceased, and the moon- 
beams lit 
The window higli in the wall, — 
Bright beams that on tlie pUink tliat I 
knew 
Through the painted pane did fall 
And gleamed with tiie splendor of 
Scotland's crow^n 
And shield armorial. 

But then a great wind swept up the skies, 
And the climbing moon fell back ; 

And the royal blazon fled from the floor. 
And nought remained on its track ; 

And high in the darkened window-pane 
The sliield and the crown were black. 

And what I say next I partly saw 

And partly I heard in sooth, 
And jiartly since from the murderers' 
lips 

Tlie torture wrung the truth. 

For now again came the armed tread 
And fast through the liall it fell ; 

But the throng was less ; and ere I saw, 
By the voice without I could tell 

That Robert Stuart Iiad come with them 
Who knew that chamber well. 

And over the space the Graeme strode 
dark 

With his mantle round him flung ; 
And in his eye was a flaming light 

But not a word on his tongue. 

And Stuart held a torch to the floor. 
And he found the thing he souglit ; 

And tliey slashed the plank away with 
tlieir swords ; 
And O God ! I fainted not ! 

And the traitor held liis torch in tlie gap. 
All smoking and smouldering ; 

And through the vapor and fire, beneath 
In the dark crypt's narrow ring, 

With a shout that pealed to the room's 
higii roof 
Tliey saw their naked King, 

Half naked he stood, but stood as one 
Who yet could do and dare : 



ROSSETTI 



821 



With the crown, the King was stript 

away, — ■ 
Tlie Kuigiit was reft of his battle- 

aira}', — 
But still the Man was there. 

From the rout then stepped a villain 
forth,— 
Sir John Hall was his name ; 
With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the 
vault 
Beneath the torchlight-flame. 

Of liis person and stature was the King 

A man right manly strong. 
And miglitily by tlie shoulder-blades 

His foe to "his feet he flung. 

Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas 
Hall, 
Sprang down to work his worst ; 
And the King caught the second man 
by the neck 
And flung him above the first. 

And he smote and trampled them 
under him ; 
And a long month thence they bare 
All black their throats vi^ith the grip of 
his hands 
When the hangman's hand came there. 

And sore he strove to have had their 
knives. 
But the sharp blades gashed his hands. 
Oh James ! so armed, thou hadst battled 
there 
Till lielp had come of thy bands ; 
And oh ! once more thou hadst iield ovir 
throne 
And ruled thy Scottish lands ! 

But while the King o'er his foes still 
raged 
AVith a heart that nought could tame. 
Another man sprang down to the crypt ; 
And with his sword in his hand hard- 
gripp'd 
There stood Sir Robert Graeme. 

(Now shame on the recreant traitor's 
heart 

Who durst not face his King 
Till the body unarmed was wearied out 

With two-fold combating ! 

Ah ! well might the people sing and say. 

As oft ye liave heard aright : — 
" O Robert Grceme, O Robert Gvceme, 



Who slew our King, God give thee 
shame ! " 
For he slew him not as a knight.) 

And the naked King turned round at bay. 

But his strengtli had passed the goal, 

And he could but gasp : — " Mine hour is 

come ; 
But oil ! to succor thine own soul's 
doom , 
Let a priest now shrive my soul ! " 

And the traitor looked on the King's 
spent streiigtii, 
And said : — " Have I kept my word ? — 
Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I 

gave ? 
No black friar's shrift thy soul shall save, 
But the shrift of this red sword ! " 

With that he smote his King through 
the breast ; 
And all they three in that pen 
Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him 
there 
Like merciless murderous men. 

Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert 
Grteme, 
Ere the King's last breath was o'er. 
Turned sick at heart with the deadly 
sight 
And would have done no more. 

But a crj^ came from the troop above : 

" If him thou do not slay. 
The price of his life that thou dost spare 

Thy forfeit life shall pay ! " 

O God ! what more did I hear or see. 
Or how should I tell the rest ? 

But there at length our King lay slain 
With sixteen wounds in his breast. 

O God ! and now did a bell boom forth, 

And the murderers tvu-ned and fled ; — 
Too late, too late, O God, did it sound ! — 
And I heard the true men mustering 
round. 
And the cries and the coming tread. 

But ere they came to the black death- 
gap 
Somewise did I creep and steal ; 
And lo ! or ever I swooned away. 
Through the dusk I saw where the white 
face lay 
In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. 



822 



BRITISH POETS 



And now, ye Scottish maids who have 
heard 

Dread things of the days grown old, — 
Even at the last, of true Queen Jane 

May somewhat yet be told, 
And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake 

Dire vengeance manifold. 

'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, 
In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, 

That the slain King's corpse on bier was 
lain 
With chant and requiem-knell. 

And all with royal wealth of balm 

Was the body purified : 
And none could trace on the brow and 
lips 

The death that he had died. 

In his robes of state he lay asleep 
With orb and sceptre in hand ; 

And by the crown he wore on his throne 
Was his kingly forehead spann'd. 

And, girls, "t was a sweet sad thing to see 
How the curling golden hair, 

As in the day of the poet's youth. 

From the King's crown clustered there. 

And if all had come to pass in the brain 

That throbbed beneath those curls, 
Then Scots had said in the days to come 
That this their soil was a different home 
And a different Scotland, girls ! 

And the Queen sat by him night and day, 

And oft she knelt in prayer. 
All wan and pale in the widow's veil 

That shrouded her shining hair. 

And I had got good help of my hurt : 

And only to me some sign 
She made ; and save the priests tliat 
were there 

No face would she see but mine. 

And the month of March wore on apace ; 

And now fresh couriers fared 
Still from the country of the Wild Scots 

With news of the traitors snared. 

And still as I told her day by day, 
Her pallor changed to sight, 



And the frost grew to a furnace-flame 
That burnt her visage white. 

And evermore as I brought her word. 
She bent to her dead King James, 

And in tlie cold ear with fire-drawn 
breath 
She spoke the traitors' names. 

But when the name of Sir Robert Graeme 
Was the one she had to give, 

I ran to hold her up from the floor ; 

For the froth was on her lips, and sore 
I feared that she could not live. 

And the month of March wore nigh to 
its end. 
And still was the death-pall spread : 
For she would not biuy her slaughtered 
lord 
Till his slayers all were dead. 

And now of their dooms dread tidings 
came. 
And of torments fierce and dire ; 
And nought she sjjake, — she had ceased 
to speak, — 
But her eyes were a soul on fire. 

Bvit when I told her tlie bitter end 
Of tiie stern and just award. 

She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice 
three times 
Slie kissed the lips of her lord. 

And then she said, — " My King, they are 
dead ! " 
And she knelt on the chapel-floor. 
And whispered low with a strange proud 
smile, — 
" James, James, they suffered more ! " 

Last she stood uj) to her queenly height. 

But she shook like an autumn leaf. 
As though the fire wherein she burned 
Then left her body, and all were turned 
To winter of life-long grief. 

And "O James!" she said, — "My 
James ! " she said. — 

" Alas for the woful thing. 
That a poet true and a friend of man, 
In desperate days of bale and ban. 

Should needs be born a King ! " 1881. 



e>^ • '^ x/ ' c ^ •■ // •- ^-^s ^^ 



^ - .^-r:, , ^-S? _.4^ ^ . ^-C~ . ^ ' -^ 






MORRIS 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editions 

* Poetical Works of William Morris, 11 volumes, Longmans, Green & 
Co., 1896-8. The Earthly Paradise, 1 volume. Reeves & Turner, 1890. 
Tlie Defence of Guenevere, Kelmscott Press, 1892. The Life and Death 
of Jason, Kelmscott Press, 1895. The Earthly Paradise, 8 volumes, 
1896-7. Poems by the Way, Kelmscott Press, 1891. (The four beauti- 
ful editions last mentioned are now practically unobtainable.) 

Biography 

* Mackail (J. W.), Life of William Morris, 2 volumes, 1899 (The 
standard biography). Vallance (Aymer), The late William Morris, 
1896. * Vallance (Aymer), William Morris ; His Art, his Writings and 
his Public Life. A Record, 1897. Cary (E. L.), William Morris : Poet, 
Craftsman, Socialist, 1902. Clarke (William), William Morris, A Sketch 
of the Man ; in F. W. Lee's William Morris, Poet, Artist, Socialist — A 
Selection froui his Writings. See also S. C. Cockerell's History of the 
Kelmscott Press, Percy H. Bate's History of the Pre-Raphaelite Move- 
ment, and the other biographical references under Rossetti. 

Criticism 

Cazalis (H.) (" Jean Labor "), William Morris et le Mouvement nou- 
veau de I'Art decoratif. Chestertox (G. K.), Twelve Types : William 
Morris and his School. Crane (Walter), William Morris, in Scribner's 
Magazine, July, 1897. Dowden (E.), Transcripts and Studies : Victorian 
Literature. Forjian (H. B.), Our Living Poets. Hewlett (M.), Wil- 
liam Morris; in The National Review, August, 1891. * Hubbard (E.), 
The Philistine, Vol. IX, No. 4. Hubbard (E.), Little Journeys to the 
Homes of English Authors. Lang (A.), The Poetry of William Morris ; 
in the Contemporary Review, August, 1882. Lang (A.), William Morris's 
Poems ; in Longman's Magazine, October, 1896. Lovett (R. M.), Wil- 
liam Morris ; in the Harvard Monthly, 1891 ; Vol. XII, p. 149. Mackail 
(J. W.), William Morris : An address. Myers (F. W. H.), William Mor- 
ris and the Meaning of Life; in The Nineteenth Century, January, 1893. 
Nordley (C. H.), Influence of Old Norse Literature upon English Litera- 

823 



824 



BRITISH POETS 



tare. Xortox (C. E.), The Life and Death of Jason ; in Tlie Nation, 
August 22, 18G7. Faynk (W. M.), in Warner's Library of the World's 
Best Literature. * Saintsbuky (G.), Corrected Impressions. * Suarp 
(AV.), William Morris : The jNlan and his Work ; in The Atlantic Monthly, 
December, 1896. Shaav (G. B.), ^Morris as Actor and Dramatist ; in The 
Saturday Review, October 10, 1896. Shaw (G. Ix), William Morris asm 
Socialist; in The Daily Chronicle, October 6, 1896. Stedman (E. C), 
Victorian Poets. ** Swi:nburxe (A. C), Essays and Studies : Morris's 
Life and Death of Jason. Symoxs (Arthur), Studies in two Literatures. 
Watts-Duxton (T.), AVilliani Morris ; in The Athenaeum, October 10, 
1896. Wyzewa (T. de), Ecrivains etrangers. Yeats (W. B.), Ideas of 
Good and Evil ; The happiest of the Poets. 

Dawson (W. J.), Makers of ]Modern English. Day (L. F.), Decorative 
Art of William Morris. Galtox (A.), Urbana Scripta. Oliphaxt (Mar- 
garet), The Victorian Age of Literature. Riegel (Julius), Die Quellen 
von William JMorris's Dichtung " The Earthly Paradise," Erlanger Bei- 
trage zur Englischen Philologie. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in 
Modern English Poetry. Sharp (Amy), Victorian Poets. 

Bibliography 

* Scott (Temple), A Bibliography of the Works of William Morris. 
* FoRMAx (H. B.), The books of William Morris. 



MORRIS 



WINTER WEATHER 

We rode together 

In the winter weather 

To the broad mead under the hill ; 
Though the skies did shiver 
With the cold, the river 

Ran, and was never still. 

No cloud did darken 

The niglit ; we did harken 

The hound's bark far away. 
It was solemn midniglit 
In that dread, dread night. 

In the years that have pass'd for aye. 

Two rode beside me, 
My banner did hide me. 

As it drooped adown from my lance ; 
With its deep blue trapjiing. 
The mail over-lapping. 

My gallant horse did prance. 



So ever together 

In the sparkling weather 

Moved my Ijanner and lance ; 
And its laurel trap])ing, 
Tlie steel over-lapping, 

The stars saw quiver and dance. 

We met together 

In the winter weatlier 

B}' the town-walls under the hill ; 
His mail rings came clinking. 
They broke on my thinking, 

For the night was husliYl and still. 

Two rode beside him. 
His banner did liide liim. 

As it drooped down straight from his 
lance ; 
With its blood-red trapping. 
The mail over-lap]iing. 

His mighty horse did prance. 



MORRIS 



825 



And ever together 

In tlie solemn weatlier 

Moved his banner and lance ; 
And the holly trapping. 
The steel over-lapping. 

Did shimmer and shiver, and dance. 

Back reined the squires 
Till tliey saw the spires 

Over the city wall ; 
Ten fathoms between us. 
No dames could have seen us 

Tilt from the city wall. 

There we sat upright 
Till the full midnight 

Should be told from the city's chimes ; 
Sharp from the towers 
Leaped fortli the showers 

Of the many clanging rhymes. 

'Twas the midnight hour. 
Deep from the tower 

Boom'd the following bell ; 
Down go our lances. 
Shout for the lances ! 

The last toll was his knell. 

There he lay, dying ; 
He had, for his lying, 

A spear in his traitorous mouth ; 
A false tale made he 
Of my true, true lady ; 

But the spear went through his mouth. 

In the winter weather 
We rode back together 

From the broad mead under tlie hill : 
And the cock sung his warning 
As it grew toward morning, 

But the far-off hound was still. 

Black grew his tower 
As we rode down lower. 

Black from the barren hill ; 
And our horses strode 
Up tlie winding road 

To the gateway dim and still. 

At the gate of his tower, 
In the quiet hour, 

We laid his body there ; 
But his helmet broken, 
We took as a token ; 

Shout for my lady fair ! 

We rode back together 
In tlie wintry weatlier 

From the broad mead under the hill ; 



No cloud did darken 

The night ; we did liurken 

How the hound bay'd from the hill. 
January, 1856.1 

RIDING TOGETHER 

For many, many days together 

The wind blew steady from the East ; 

For man_y days hot grew the weather. 
About the time of our Lady's Feast. 

For many days we rode together. 
Yet met we neither friend nor foe ; 

Hotter and clearer grew the weather. 
Steadily did the East wind blow. 

We saw the trees in the hot, bright 
weatlier, 

Clear-cut, with sliadows very black. 
As freely we rode on together 

With helms unlaced and bridles slack. 

And often as we rode together, 

We, looking down tiie green-bank'd 
stream. 

Saw flowers in the sunny weather, 
And saw the bubble-making bream. 

And in the night lay down together. 

And hung al)Ove our heads the rood. 
Or watch'd night-long in the dewy 
weather. 
The while the moon did watch the 
Avood . 

Our spears stood bright and thick to- 
gether. 
Straight out the banners streamed 
behind. 
As we gallop'd on in the sunnv^ weather, 
With faces turn'd towards the wind. 

Down sank our threescore spears to- 
gether. 

As thick we saw the pagans ride : 
His eager face in the clear fresh weather, 

Shone out that last time by my side. 

Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd 
together. 
It rock'd to the crash of the meeting 
spears, 

1 The dates for Blorris's poems have been com- 
piled with the help of Mr. Temple Scott's excel- 
lent BiblioRi-aphy of the AVorks of William 
Jlorris, and Mr. Formaa's^The Books of William 
Morris. 



826 



BRITISH POETS 



Down lain'd the buds of the dear spring 
weather, 
The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. 

There, as we rolFd and writhed together, 
I threw my arms above my head. 

For close by my side, in the lovely 
weather, 
I saw h im reel and fall back dead. 

I and the slayer met together, 
He waited the death-stroke there in 
his place, 
With thoughts of death, in the lovely 
weather, 
Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. 

Madly I fought as we fought together ; 

In vain : the little Christian band 
The pagans drown'd, as in stormj- 
weather. 

The river drowns low-lying land. 

They bound my blood-stain'd hands to- 
gether. 
They bound his corpse to nod by mj^ 
side : 
Then on we rode, in the bright March 
weather. 
With clash of cymbals did we ride. 

We ride no more, no more together ; 

My prison-bars are thick and strong, 
I take no lieed of any weather, 

The sweet Saints grant I live not long. 
May, 1856. 

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 

Sir Ozaxa le Cure Hardy. Sir 
Galahad. Sir Bors de Ganys. 

Sir Ozana. All day long and every day. 
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, 
Within tliat Chapel-aisle I lay, 
And no man came a-near. 

Naked to the waist was I, 
And deep within my breast did lie, 
Though no man any blood could spy. 
The truncheon of a spear. 

No meat did ever pass my lips 
Those days. Alas ! the sunlight slips 
From off the gilded parclose, dips, 
And night comes on apace. 

My arms lay back behind my head ; 
Over my raised-up knees was spread 
A samite cloth of white and red ; 
A ro.se lay on my face. 



Many a time I tried to shout ; 
But as in dream of battle-rout. 
My frozen speech would not well out ; 
I could not even weep. 

With inward sigh I see the sun 
Fade off the pillars one by one. 
My heart faints when tlie day is done, 
Because I cannot sleep. 

Sometimes strange thoughts pass 

through my head ; 
Not like a tomb is this my bed. 
Yet oft I think that I am dead ; 
That rovmd my tomb is writ, 

" Ozana of the hardy heart, 

Knight of the Table Round. 
Pray for liis soul, lords, of your jmrt ; 

A true knight he was found." 

Ah ! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps. 

Sir Galahad. All day long and every day, 
Till his madness pass'd away, 
I watch'd Ozana as he lay 
Within the gilded screen. 

All my singing moved him not ; 
As I sung my heart grew hot. 
Witli the thought of Launcelot 
Far away, I ween. 

So I went a little space 
From out the cliapel, bat lied my face 
In the stream that iims apace 
By the churchyard wall. 

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, 
Hard by wiiere the linden grows, 
Sighing over .silver rows 
Of the lilies tall. 

I laid the flower across his mouth ; 

The sparkling drops seem'd good for 

drouth ; 
He smiled, turn'd round towards the 

south. 
Held up a golden tress. 

Tlie light smote on it from the west ; 
He drew the covering from his breast, 
Against his heart that hair he pressed ; 
Death him soon will bless. 

Sir Bors. I eiiter'd by the western door; 

I saw a knighfs helm lying there ; 
I raised my eyes from off the floor, 

And caught the gleaming of his haii-. 



MORRIS 



827 



I stept full softly vip to him ; 
I laid my chiil upon his head ; 
I felt him smile ; my eyes did swim, 
I was so glad he was not dead. 

I heard Ozana murmur low. 

" There comes no sleep nor an 3- love." 
But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow : 

He shiver'd ; I saw his pale lips move. 

Sir Ozana. There comes no sleep nor 
any love ; 

Ah me ! I sliiver with delight. 
I am so weak I cannot move ; 

God move me to thee, dear, to-night ! 
Christ help ! I have but little wit : 
Mj^ life went wrong ; I see it writ, 

" Ozana of the hardy heart. 

Knight of the Table Round. 
Pray for his soul, lords, on your part ; 

A good knight lie was found." 

Now I begin to fathom it. [He dies. 

Sir Bors. Galahad sits dreamily : 
What strange things may his eyes see, 
Gi'eat blue eyes fix'd full on me ? 
On his soul, Lord, have mercy. 

Sir Galahad. Ozana, shall I pray for 
thee ? 

Her cheek is laid to thine ; 
No long time hence, also I see 

Thy wasted fingers twine 

Within the tresses of her hair 

That shineth gloriously. 
Thinly outspread in the clear air 

Against the jasper sea. 

September, 1856. 

SUMMER DAWN 

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt tln^ 

closed lips ; 
Think but one thought of me up in the 

stars. 
The summer night waneth, the morning 

light slips. 
Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the 

aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars. 
That are patiently waiting there for the 

dawn : 
Patient and colorless, though Heaven's 

gold 
Waits to float through them along with 

the sun. 
Far out in the meadows, above the young 

corn, 



The heavy elms wait, and restless and 
cold 
The uneasy wind rises ; the roses are 

dun ; 
They pray the long gloom through for 

daylight new born. 
Round the lone house in the midst of 
the corn. 
Speak but one word to me over the 

corn, 
Over the tender, bow'd locks of the 
corn. October, 1856. 

HANDS 

"Twixt the sunlight and the shade 
Float up memories of my maid : 

God, remember Guendolen ! 

Gold or gems she did not wear, 
But her yellow rippled hair. 

Like a veil, hid Guendolen ! 

Twixt the sunlight and the shade, 
ily rough hands so strangely made. 
Folded Golden Guendolen. 

Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, 
Framed her face, while on the sward 

Tears fell down fi'om Guendolen. 

Guendolen now speaks no word. 
Hands fold round aljout the sword : 
Now no more of Guendolen. 

Only "twixt the light and shade 
Floating memories of my maid 

Make me pray for Guendolen . 

1856. 

GOLD HAIR 

Is it not true that everj' day 
She climbeth up the same strange way. 
Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay, 
Over my golden hair ? 

When I undo the knotted mass. 
Fathoms below tlie shadows pass 
Over my hair along tlie grass. 
O my golden hair ! 

See on the marble parapet, 
I lean my brow, strive to forget 
That fathoms below my hair grows wet 
With the dew, my golden hair. 

See on the marble parapet, 
The faint red stains witli tears are wet ; 
The long years pass, no help comes yet 
To free my golden hair. 



828 



BRITISH POETS 



And yet : but I am growing old. 
For want of love my lieart is cold : 
Years pass, the wliile I loose and fold 
The fathoms of mv hair. 

1858.1 

THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE 

But, knowing now that they would have 

her speak, 
She threv^r iier wet liair backward from 

her brow, 
Her hand close to her mouth touching 

her cheek. 

As though she had liad there a shameful 

blow, 
And feeling it .shameful to feel aught 

but sliame 
All tlirough her heart, yet felt her cheek 

burned so, 

She must a little touch it ; like one lame 
She w^alked away from Gauwaine, with 

her head 
Still lifted up ; and on her cheek of 

flame 

The tears dried quick ; she stopped at 

last and said : 
" O knights and lords, it seems but little 

skill 
To talk of well-known things past now 

and dead. 

" God wot I ought to say, T have done ill. 
And praj' you all forgiveness heartily ! 
Because you must be right, such great 
lords ; still 

" Listen, suppose your time were come 

to die, 
And you were quite alone and very 

weak ; 
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily 

"The wind was ruffling up the narrow 
streak 

Of river through your broad lands run- 
ning well : 

Suppose a liush sliould come, then some 
one speak : 

" ' One of these cloths is heaven, and one 
is hell, 

^ The precpdins, poem, Hands, published 
under tliat title in the Oxford and Cambridge 
Magazine, 18.=)6, and the lyric stanzas to which I 
have here given tlie title Gold Hair, both form 
part of Rapanzcl in the Guenevere volume, 1858. 



Now clioose one cloth for ever ; which 
they be, 

. I will not tell you, you must somehow 
^ tell 



" ' Of your own strength and mightiness ; 

here, see ! ' 
Yea, j'ea, my lord, and you to ope your 

eyes. 
At foot of your familiar bed to see 

"A great God's angel standing, with 

such dyes, 
Not known on earth, on liis great wings, 

and hands. 
Held out two ways, light from the inner 

skies 

"Showing him well, and making his 

com mands 
Seem to be God's commands, moreover, 

too, 
Holding within his hands the cloths on 

wands ; 

" And one of these strange choosing 

cloths was blue, 
Wavy and long, and one cut short and 

red ; 
No man could tell the better of the two. 

" After a shivering half-hour j'ou said : 
' God help ! heaven's color, the blue ; ' 

and he said, ' hell.' 
Perhaps j'^ou vsrould then roll upon your 

bed, 

" And cry to all good men that loved 

you well, 
' Ah Christ ! if only I had known, 

known, known ; ' 
Launcelot went aw^ay, then I could tell, 

" Like wisest man how all things would 

be, moan, 
And roll and hurt myself, and long to die. 
And yet fear much to die for what was 

sow^n. 

" Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, 
Wliatever may have happened through 

the.se years, 
God knows I speak truth, saying that 

you lie." 

Her voice was low at first, being full of 

tears, 
But as it cleared, it grew full loud and 

si 1 rill. 
Growing a windy shriek in all men's 

ears. 



MORRIS 



829 



A ringing in their startled brains, until 
She said tliat Gauwaine lied, then her 

voice sunk. 
And her great eyes began again to fill, 

Though still she stood right up, and 

never slirunk. 
But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair ! 
Whatever tears her full lips may have 

drunk, 

She stood, and seen\ed to think, and 

wrung her hair, 
Spoke out at last with no more trace of 

shame. 
With passionate twisting of her body 

there : 

" It chanced upon a day that Launcelot 
came 

To dwell at Arthur's court : at Christ- 
mastime 

This happened ; when tlie heralds sung 
his name, 

" Son of King Ban of Benwick, seemed 

to chime 
Along with all the bells that rang that 

day. 
O'er the white roofs, with little change 

of rhyme. 

" Christmas and whitened winter passed 

away, 
And over me the April sunshine came. 
Made very awful with black hail-clouds, 

yea 

" And in the Summer I grew white with 

flame. 
And bowed my head down : Autumn, 

and the sick 
Sure knowledge things would never be 

the same, 

" However often Spring inight be most 

thick 
Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and 

I grew 
Careless of most things, let the clock 

tick, tick, 

" To my unhappy pulse, tliat beat right 

through 
My eager body ; while I laughed out loud, 
And let my lips curl up at false or true, 

'• Seemed cold and shallow without any 
cloud. 



Behold, my judges, then the cloths were 

brought ; 
While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts 

would crowd, 

'' Belonging to the time ere I was bought 
By Artluir's great name and his little 

love : 
Must I give up for ever then, I thought, 

"That which I deemed would ever 

round me move 
Glorifying all things ; for a little word. 
Scarce ever meant at all, must I now 

prove 

"Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does 

the Lord 
Will that all folks should be quite happy 

and good ? 
I love God now a little, if this cord 

" AVere broken, once for all what striving 

could 
Make me love an}'thing in earth or 

heaven ? 
So day by day it grew, as if one should 

"Slip slowly down some path worn 

smooth and even, 
Down to a cool sea on a summer day ; 
Yet still in slipping there was some 

small leaven 

" Of stretched hands catching small 

stones by the way, 
Until one surely reached the sea at last, 
And felt strange new joy as the worn 

head lay 

"Back, with the hair like sea-weed; 

yea all past 
Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, 
Washed utterly ovit by the dear waves 

o'ercast, 

" In the lone sea, far off from any sliips ! 
Do I not know now of a day in Spring? 
No minute of that wild day ever slips 

" From out my memory ; I hear thrushes 

sing. 
And wheresoever I may be, straightway 
Thoughts of it all come up with most 

fresh sting : 

" I was half mad with beauty on that 

day. 
And went without my ladies all alone, 
In a quiet garden walled round every 

way; 



830 



BRITISH POETS 



" I was right joyful of that wall of stone, 
That shut the flowers and trees up with 

the sky, 
And trebled all the beauty : to the bone, 

"Yea right through to my heart, grown . 

very shy 
With wary thoughts, it pierced, and 

made me glad ; 
Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily, 

" A little thing just then had made me 

mad ; 
I dared not think, as I was wont to do. 
Sometimes, upon my beauty ; If I had 

" Held out my long hand up against the 

blue. 
And, looking on the tenderly darken'd 

lingers, 
Thought that by rights one ought to see 

quite through, 

"There, see you, where the soft still 

light yet lingers. 
Round by the edges ; what should I have 

done. 
If this had joined with yellow spotted 

singers, 

" And startling green drawn upward by 

the sun ? 
But shouting, loosed out, see now ! all 

my hair. 
And trancedly stood watching the west 

wind run 

"With faintest half -heard breathing 

sound : why there 
I lose my head e'en now in doing this ; 
But shortly listen : In that garden fair 

" Came Launcelot walking ; this is true, 

the kiss 
Wherevvitli we kissed in meeting that 

spring day, 
I scai'ce dare talk of the remember'd bliss, 

" When both our mouths went wander- 
ing in one way, 

And aching sorely, met among the 
leaves ; 

Our hands being left behind strained 
far away. 

"Never within a yard of my bright 

sleeves 
Had Launcelot come before : and now 

so nigh ! 
After that day why is it Guenevere 

grieves ? 



" Nevertheless you, O SirGauwaine, lie, 
Whatever happened on through all 

those years, 
God knows I speak truth, saying that 

you lie. 

" Being such a lady could I weep these 

tears 
If this were true ? A great queen sucli as I 
Having siiin'd this way, straight her 

conscience sears ; 

" And afterwards she liveth liatefully. 
Slaying and poisoning, certes never 

weeps : 
Gauwaine be friends now, speak ine 

lovingly. 

" Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps 
All tlirough your frame, and trembles in 

your mouth '? 
Remember in what grave your mother 

sleeps, 

"Buried in some place far down in the 

south 
Men are forgetting as I speak to you ; 
By her headsever'd in that awful drouth 

" Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow. 
I pray your pity ! let me not scream out 
Foi- ever after, when the shrill winds blow 

"Through half your castle-locks! let 

me not shout 
For ever after in the winter night 
When you ride out alone I iii battle-rovit 

'' Let not my rusting tears make your 

sword light ! 
Ah ! God of mercy, how he turns away ! 
So, ever must I dress me to the fight, 

" So : let God's jvistice work ! Gauwaine, 

I say. 
See me liew down your proofs : yea all 

men know 
Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one 

day, 

" One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so 
All good kniglits held it after, saw : 
Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage ; 
though 

" You, Gauwaine, held liis word without 
a flaw. 

Not so. fair lords, even if tlie world 
should end 



MORRIS 



831 



" This very day, and you were judges 

here 
Instead of God. Did you see IMellya- 

graunce 
When Launcelot stood by liim ? what 

white fear 

'•Curdled his blood, and how his teeth 

did dance, 
His side sink in ? as my kniglit cried and 

said : 
' Slayer of unarni'd men, here is a chance ! 

" ' Setter of traps, I pray you guard your 

head. 
By God I am so glad to fight witli you. 
Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead 

"'For driving weight; hurrah now! 

draw and do, 
For all my wounds are moving in my 

breast. 
And I am getting mad with waiting so.' 

" He struck his hands togetlier o'er tlie 

beast. 
Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at liis 

feet. 
And groan'd at being slain so young : 

' At least,' 

" My knight said, ' Rise you, sir, who are 

so fleet 
At catching ladies, half-arin'd will I 

light. 
My left side all uncovered ! ' tlien I weet, 

" Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with 

great delight 
Upon his knave's face ; not until just 

then 
Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight 

" Along the lists look to my stake and 

pen 
With such a joyous smile, it made me 

sigh 
From agony beneath my waist-chain, 

when 

" The fight began, and to me they drew 

nigh ; 
Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right. 
And traversed warily, and ever high 

" And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my 

knight 
Sudden threw up his sword to liis left 

hand. 
Caught it and swung it ; tliat was all the 

fight ; 



" Except a spout of blood on the hot land ; 
For it was liottest summer ; and I know 
I wonder'd ]io\v tlie fire, while I should 
stand, 

" And burn, against the heat, would 
quiver so, 

Yards above my head ; thus these mat- 
ters went ; 

Which tilings were only warnings of 
the woe 

" That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce 

was shent. 
For Mellyagraunce had fought against 

tlie Lord ; 
Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you 

be blent 

" With all his wickedness ; s'ay no rash 

word 
Against me, being so beautiful ; my eyes 
Wept all away to gray, may bring some 

sword 

"To drown you in your blood ; see my 
breast rise, 

Like waves of purple sea, as liere I stand ; 

And how my arms are moved in won- 
derful wise, 

" Yea also at my full lieart's strong com- 
mand, 

See through my long throat how the 
words go up 

In ripples to my moutli ; how in my hand 

" The shadow lies like wine within a cup 
Of marvellously coloi'd gold ; j'ea now. 
Tliis little wind is rising, look you up, 

" And wonder how the light is falling so 
Within my moving tresses : will you dai"e 
When you have looked a little on my 
brow, 

"To say this thing is vile ? or will j^ou 

care 
For any plausible lies of cunning woof, 
Wlien you can see my face with no lie 

there 

" For ever ? am I not a gracious proof ? — 
' But in your clianiber Launcelot was 

found ' — 
Is there a good knight then would stand 

aloof, 

" When a queen says with gentle 
queenly sound : 



832 



BRITISH POETS 



' O true as steel, come now and talk with 

me, 
I love to see your step upon the ground 

" ' Unwavering, also well I love to see 
That gracious smile light up your face, 

and hear 
Your wonderful words, that all mean 

verily 

" ' The thing they seem to mean : good 

friend, so dear 
To me in everything, come here to-night. 
Or else tlie hours will pass most dull and 

drear ; 

" ' If you come not, I fear this time I 

might 
Get thinking over much of times gone 

by, 

When I was young, and green hope was 
in sight : 

" ' For no man cares now to know wh}' I 

sigh ; 
And no man comes to sing me pleasant 

songs. 
Nor any brings me the sweet flowers 

that lie 

" ' So thick in the gardens ; therefore 

one so longs 
To see you, Launcelot.; that we may be 
Like children once again, free from all 

w^rongs 

" ' Just for one night.' Did he not come 

to me 'i 
What thing could keep true Launcelot 

away 
If I said, ' Come ? ' there was one less 

than three 

" In my quiet room that night, and we 

were gay ; 
Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and 

sick, 
Because a bawling broke our dream up, 

yea 

" I looked at Launcelot's face and could 

not speak. 
For he looked helpless too, for a little 

while ; 
Then I rejnember how I tried to shriek, 

" And could not, but fell down ; from 

tile to tile 
The stones the,f threw up rattled o'er 

my head [while 

And made nie dizzier ; tdl within a 



" My maids were all about me, and m\' 
head 

On Launcelot's breast was being soothed 
away 

From its white chattering, until Launce- 
lot said : . . . 

" By God ! I will not tell you more to- 
day. 

Judge any waj^ vou will : what matters 
it? 

You know quite well the stoiy of that 
fray, 

" How Launcelot still'd their bawling, 

the mad fit 
That caught up Gauwaine, all, all, 

verily , 
But just that which would save me ; 

these things flit. 

" Nevertheless you. O Sir Gauwaine, lie. 
Whatever may have ha^jpeu'd these long 

years, 
God knows I speak truth, saying that 

you lie ! 

" All I have said is truth, by Christ's 

dear tears." 
She would not speak another word, but 

stood 
Turn'd sideways ; listening, like a man 

who hears 

His brother's trumpet sounding through 

the wood 
Of his foes' lances. She leaned eagerly, 
And gave a slight spring sometimes, as 

she could 

At last hear something really ; joyfully 
Her cheek grew crimson, as the head- 
long speed 
Of the roan charger drew all men to see. 
The knight who came was Launcelot at 
good need. 1858. 

THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 

A golden gilliflower to-day 
I wore upon my helm alway. 
And won the prize of this tourney. 
Hall ! halt! la belle jaune giroflee. 

However well Sir Giles might sit, 
His sun was weak to wither it. 
Lord Miles's blood was dew on it : 
Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 



MORRIS 



833 



Althougli my spear in splinters flew. 
From John's steel-coat, my eye was 

true ; 
I wlieel'd about, and cried for you. 
Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Yea, do not douVit my heart was good. 
Tliough my sword flew like rotten wood, 
To shout, although I scarcely stood. 
Hah ! hah ! la belle Jaune giroflee. 

My hand was steady too, to take 
My axe from round my neck, and break 
John's steel-coat up for my love's sake. 
Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Wlien I stood in my tent again. 
Arming afresh, I felt a pain 
Take hold of me. I was so fain — 

Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee — 

To liear : Honnenr aux fils fZe.s prcN.r / 
Right in mj- ears again, and shew 
The gilliflower blossom'd new. 

HaJh ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 

The Sieur Guillaume against me came, 
His tabard bore three points of flame 
From a red lieart ; with little blame. — 
Hah! hah! labelle jaune giroflee, — 

Our tough spears crackled up like straw ; 
He was the first to turn and draw 
His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw ; 
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

But I felt weaker than a maid. 
And my brain, dizzied and afraid, 
Within my helm a fierce tune play'd. 
Hah! hah! labelle jaune giroflee. 

Until I thouglit of your dear head, 
Row'd to the gilliflower bed. 
The yellow flowers stain'd with red ; 
Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Crash ! how the swords met : giroflee ! 
Tlie fierce tune in my helm would play. 
La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee! 

Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 

Once more the great swords met again : 

" La belle ! la belle ! '" but wlio fell then ? 

Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down 

ten ; 

Hall ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 

And as with mazed and unarm'd face. 
Toward my own crown and the Queen's 
place, 

S3 



They led me at a gentle pace. — 

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee, — 

I almost saw j'our quiet head 
Bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed. 
The yellow flowers stain'd with red. 
Hah! hall! la belle Jaime giroflee. 

IS.IS. 

SHAMEFUL DEATH 

There were four of us about that bed ; 

The mass-priest knelt at the side. 
I and his mother stood at the head. 

Over his feet lay the bride ; 
We were quite sure that he was dead, 

Tiiougli his eyes were open wide. 

He did not die in the night. 

He did not die in the day. 
But in the morning twilight 

His spirit passM away. 
When neither sun nor moon was bright, 

And tlie trees were merely gray. 

He was not slain with the sword. 
Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, 

Yet spoke he never a word 
After he came in here ; 

I cut awa^' the cord 

From tlie neck of my brother dear. 

He did not strike one blow. 

For the recreants came behind, 

In a place where the hornbeams grow, 
A path right hard to find. 

For the hornbeam boughs swing so. 
That the twilight makes it blind. 

Thev liglited a great torch then. 

When his arms were pinion'd fast. 
Sir John the knight of tlie Fen, 

Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, 
With knights tlireescore and ten, 

Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. 

I am threescore and ten. 

And my hair is all turn'd gray. 

But I met Sir John of the Fen 
Long ago on a summer day. 

And am glad to think of the moment 
when 
I took his life away. 

I am threescore and ten, 

And my strength is mostly pass'd. 
But long ago I and my men, 

Wlien tlie sky was overcast. 
And tlie smoke roU'd over tlie reeds of 
the fen, 

Slew Guy of tlie Dolorous Blast, 



834 



BRITISH POETS 



And now, knights all of you, 
I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, 

A good kniglit and a true, 

And for Alice, liis wife, pra}'^ too. 

1858. 

THE EVE OF CRECY 

Gold on her head, and gold on Jier feet. 
And gold where the hems of her kirtle 

meet. 
And a golden girdle round my sweet ; 
Ah ! qiCelle est belle La Marguerite. 

Margaret's maids are fair to see, 
Freshly dress'd and pleasantly ; 
Margai'et's hair falls down to "her knee ; 
Ah! qiCelle est belle La Marguerite. 

If I were rich I would kiss her feet ; 
I would kiss the place where the gold 

hems meet, 
And the golden kirtle round my sweet : 
Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

All me ! I have never touch'd her liand ; 
When the arriere-ban goes through the 

land, 
Six basnets under my pennon stand ; 
Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

And many an one grins under his hood : 
Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men 

good, 
Has neither food nor firewood ; 

Ah ! qu'elle e.^t belle La Marguerite. 

If I were rich I would kiss her feet, 
And the golden girdle of my sweet. 
And thereabouts where the gold hems 
ineet ; 
Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

Yet even now it is good to think. 
While ni}^ poor varlets grumble and 

drink 
In my desolate hall, where the fires 

sink, — 
Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. — 

Of Margaret sitting glorious thei'e, 
In glor)-^ of gold and glorv of hair. 
And glory of glorious face most fair ; 
^4/i, .' qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

Likewise to-night I make good clieer. 
Because this battle draweth near : 
For what have I to lose or fear? 

Ah ! quelle est belle La Marguerite. 



For, look you, my horse is good to prance 
A riglit fair measure in this wai'-dance, 
Before the eyes of Philip of France ; 
Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

And sometime it may hap, perdie, 
Wliile my new towers stand up three 

and three, 
And my hall gets painted fair to see — 
Ali! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite — 

That folks may say : Times change, by 

the rood. 
For Lambert, banneret of the wood. 
Has heaps of food and firewood ; 

Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

And wonderful ej'es, too, under the hood 
Of a damsel of right noble blood. 
St. Ives, for Lambert of tlie Wood ! 

Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 

1858. 

THE SAILING OF THE SWORD 

Across the empty garden-beds, 
When the Sword ivent out to sea, 

I scarcely saw my sisters' heads 
Bowed each beside a tree. 

I could not see the castle leads, 
Wlieii the Sivo7'd went out to sea. 

Alicia wore a scarlet gown, 

Wlieu the Sword icent out to sea. 

But Ursula's was russet brown : 
For the mist we could not see 

The scarlet roofs of the good town, 
117/ CH the Sirord ivent out to sea. 

Green holly in Alicia's hand, 

W]ieii the Sword went out to sea ; 

With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand ; 
Oil ! yet alas for me ! 

I did but bear apeel'd white wand. 
When the Sivord ivent out to sea. 

O, russet brown and scarlet bright, 
When the Sword went out to sea. 

My sisters wore ; I wore but white : 
Red, brown, and white, are three; 

Three damozels ; each had a knight, 
When the Sword tcent out to sea. 

Sir Robert shouted loiul, and said ; 

Mlien the Sword went out to sea, 
' Alicia, while I see thy heail. 

What shall I bring for thee? ' 
" O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red :" 

The Sword ivent out to sea. 



MORRIS 



835 



Sir Miles said, while tlie sails hung down, 
When the Sword ivent oat to sea, 

" O, Ursula ! while I see tlie town, 
What shall I bring for thee ? " 

" Dear knight, bring back a falcon 
brown : " 
The Sword went out to Sea. 

But my Roland, no word he said 
When the Sivord went out to sea, 

But only turn'd away his head : 
A quick shriek came from me : 

"Come back, dear loi'd, to your white 
maid ! " 
The Sword went out to sea. 

The hot sun bit the garden-beds 

Mlien the Sioord came hack from sea ; 

Beneath an apple-tree our heads 
Stretched out toward the sea ; 

Gray gleamed the thirsty castle-leads. 
When the Sword came hack from sea. 

Lord Robert brought a ruby red, 

W hen the Sword caine back from sea ; 

He kissed Alicia on the head : 
" I am come back to thee ; 

'T is time, sweet love, that we were 
wed. 
Now the Sword is back from sea ! " 

Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown, 

When the Sword came back from sen ; 

His arms went round tall Ursula's gown : 
" What joy, O love, but thee? 

Let us be wed in the good town, 
Nolo the Sword is back from sea ! " 

Mj' heart grew sick, no more afraid. 
When the Sword came back from sea ; 

Upon the deck a tall white maid 
Sat on Lord Roland's knee ; 

His chin was press'd upon her head. 
When the Sword came back from sea! 

1858. 

THE BLUE CLOSET 

The Damozels 

Lady Alice, lady Louise, 
Between the wash of the tumbling seas 
We are ready to sing, if so ye please : 
So lay your long hands on tiie ke^^s ; 

"Sing, Laiidate pueri." 

And ever the great bell overhead 
Boom'd in the icind a knell for f lie dead. 
Though, no one toWd it, a knell for the 
dpad. 



Lady Louise 

Sister. let the measure swell 
Not too loud ; for you sing not well 
If you drown the faint boom of the bell ; 
He is weary, so am I. 

And ever the chevron overhead 
Fkqip'd on the banner of the dead ; 
( Was lie asleep, or was he dead ?) 

Lady Alice 

Alice tlie Queen, and Louise the Queen, 
Two damzels wearing purple and green, 
Four lone ladies dwelling here 
From day to day and year to year ; 
And there is none to let us go ; 
To break the locks of the doors below. 
Or sliovel away the heaped-up snow ; 
And when we die no man will know 
That we are dead ; but they give us 

leave. 
Once every year on Christmas-eve, 
To sing in the Closet Blue one song ; 
And we should be so long, so long, 
If we dared, in singing ; for dream on 

dream. 
They float on in a happy stream ; 
Float from the gold strings, float from 

the keys 
Float from the open'd lips of Louise ; 
But, alas ! the sea-salt oozes through 
The chinks of the tiles of the Closet 

Blue ; 

And ever the great bell overhead 
Booms in tlie wind a knell for the dead. 
The wind plays on it a knell fur the 
dead. 

They Sing all Together 

How long ago was it, how long ago. 
He came to this tower with hands full of 
snow ? 

" Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel 

down ! " he said. 
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my 

head. 

He watch 'd the snow melting, it ran 

through niy hair, 
Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders 

and bai'e. 

"I cannot weep for thee, poor love 

Louise, 
For my tears are all hidden deep under 

the seas ; 



836 



BRITISH POETS 



" In a gold and blue casket she keeps all 

my tears, 
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old 

years ; 

" Yea, tliey grow gray with time, grow 

small and dry, 
I am so feeble now, would I might die." 

And in truth the great hell overhead 
Left off his jiedllug for the dead. 
Perchance, because the zvind was dead. 

Will he come back again, or is he dead ? 
O ! is he sleeping, my scarf round his 
head ? 

Or did they strangle him as he la}" there. 
With the long scarlet scarf I used to 
wear ? 

Only I pray thee, Loi-d, let hina come 

here ! 
Both his soul and his body to me are 

most dear. 

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to re- 
ceive 

Either body or spirit this wild Christmas- 
eve. 

Through the floor shot up a lily red. 
With a patch of earth from the land of 

the dead. 
For he was .strong in the land of the dead. 

What matter that his cheeks were pale. 
His kind kiss'd lips all gray ? 

" O, love Louise, have you waited long ? " 
" O, my lord Arthur, yea." 

What if his hair that brushed her cheek 

Was stiff with frozen rime ? 
His eyes were grown quite blue again. 

As in the happy time. 

" O, love Louise, this is the key 

Of the happy golden land ! 
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me. 

My eyes are full of sand. 
What matter that I cannot see. 

If ye take me by the hand ? " 

And ever the great hell overhead. 

And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the 

dead ; 
For their song ceased, and they icere 

dead ! 1858. 



THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS 

Had she come all the way for this, 
To part at last without a kiss ? 
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
That lier own eyes might see him slain 
Beside the haystack in the floods ? 

Along the dripping leafless woods, 
Tlie stirrup touching either shoe, 
She rode astride as troojDers do ; 
Witli kirtle kilted to her knee, 
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly ; 
And the wet dripp'd from every tree 
Upon her head and heavy hair, 
And on her eyelids broad and fair ; 
The tears and rain ran down her face. 

By fits and starts they rode apace, 
And very often was his place 
Far off from her ; he had to ride 
Ahead, to see what might betide 
When the roads cross'd ; and sometimes, 

when 
There I'ose a murmuring from his men, 
Had to turn back with promises. 
Ah me ! she had but little ease ; 
And often for pure doubt and di'ead 
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head 
By the swift riding ; while, for cold. 
Her slender fingers scarce could hold 
The wet reins ; yea, and scarcely, too, 
Slie felt the foot within her shoe 
Against the stirrup : all for this. 
To part at last without a kiss 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 

For when they near'd that old soak'd 

hav, 
They saw across the only way 
That Judas, Godmar, and the three 
Red running lions dismally 
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which 
In one straight line along the ditch. 
They counted thirty heads. 

So then 
Wliile Robert turn'd round to his men. 
She saw at once the wretched end, 
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend 
Her coif the wrong way from her head, 
And hid her eyes ; while Robert said : 
" Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one ; 
At Poictiers where w^e made thein run 
So fast — why, sweet my love, good 

cheer. 
The Gascoji frontier is so near, 
Nought after us." 

But : " O ! " she said, 
" My God ! my God ! I have to tread 



MORRIS 



837 



The long way back without you ; then 
The court at Paris ; those six men ; 
The gratings of the Chatelet ; 
TJie swift Seine on some rainy day 
Like tJiis, and people standing by, 
And laughing, widle my weak hands 

try 
To recollect how strong men swim. 
All tliis, or else a life with liim, 
For which I sliould be damned at last, 
Would God that this next hour were 

past ! " 

He answer'd not, but cried his cry. 
" SL. George for Marny ! "' clieerily ; 
And laid his hand upon her rein. 
Alas ! no man of all his train 
Gave back that ciieery cry again ; 
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 
Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast 
About his neck a kerchief long. 
And bound him. 

Then they went along 
To Godmar ; who said : •' Now, Jeliane, 
Your lover's life is on the wane 
So fast, that, if this very hour 
You yield not as my paramour, 
He will not see the rain leave off : 
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and 

scoff 
Sir Robert, or I slay you now." 

Slie laid her liand upon her brow. 
Then gazed upon tiie p;dm. as though 
She thougiit her forehead bled, and : 

"No!" 
She said, and turn'd her head away, 
As there whs notliing else to say. 
And everything was settled : red 
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head : 
" Jehane, on yonder liill there stands 
My castle, guarding well my lands ; 
What hinders me from taking you. 
And doing that I list to do 
To your fair wilful body, while 
Your knight lies dead ? " 

A wicked smile 
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
A long way out she thrust her chin : 
•'You know that I should strangle you 
While you were sleeping ; or bite through 
Your thi'oat, by God's help : ali ! " she 

said, 
" Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid ! 
For in such wise they liem me in, 
I cannot choose but sin and sin, 
Whatever happens : yet I think 
They could not make me eat or drink, 
And so should I just reach my rest." 



'• Nay, if you do not my behest, 

O Jehane ! though I love you well," 

Said Godmar, " would I fail to tell 

All that I know V " "Foul lies," she 

said. 
" Eh? lies, my Jehane ? by God's head, 
At Paris folks w^ould deem them true ! 
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you : 
' Jehane the brown ! Jeliane the brown ! 
Give us Jehane to burn or drown ! ' 
Eh ! — gag me Robert ! — sweet my friend, 
This were indeed a piteous end 
F(3r tiiose long fingers, and long feet. 
And long neck, and smooth shoulders 

sweet ; 
An end that few men would forget 
That saw it. So, an hour yet : 
Consider, Jehane, which to take 
Of life or death ! " 

So, scarce awake, 
Dismounting, did she leave that place, 
And totter some yards : with her face 
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay. 
Her head on a wet heap of hay. 
And fell asleep : and while she slept. 
And did not dream, the minutes crept 
Round to the twelve again ; hut she, 
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly. 
And strangely childlike came, and said: 
•' I will not." Straightway Godmar's 

head. 
As though it hung on strong wires, 

turn'd 
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. 

For Robert, both his eyes were dry. 
He could not weep, but gloomily 
He seem'd to watch the rain ; yea. too. 
His lips were firm ; he tried once more 
To touch her lips ; she reach'd out, sore 
And vain desire so tortured them, 
The poor gray lips, and now the hem 
Of his sleeve brush'd them. 

With a start 
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart ; 
From Robert's throat he loosed the 

bands 
Of silk and mail ; with empty Jiands 
Held out. she stood and gazed, and saw, 
The long bright blade without a flaw 
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his 

hand 
In Robert's hair ; she saw liim bend 
Back Robert's head ; she saw him send 
The thin steel down ; the blow told well. 
Right backward the knight Robert fell. 
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, 
Unwitting, as I deem : so then 
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, 



838 



BRITISH POETS 



Wlio ran, some five or six, and beat 
His liead to pieces at their feet. 

Then Godmar turn'd again and said : 
" So, Jehane, the first fitte is read ! 
Take note, my lady, that your way 
Lies backward to the Cliatelet ! " 
She shook lier head and gazed awhile 
At her cold hands with a rueful smile, 
As though this thing had made her mad. 

This was the parting that they had 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 

1858. 

TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE 
MOON 

There was a lady lived in a hall, 
Large of her eyes and slim and tall ; 
And ever she sung from noon to noon, 
Two red roses across the moon. 

There was a knight came riding by 
In early spring, when the roads were dry ; 
And he heard that lady sing at the noon. 
Two red roses acr^oss the moon. 

Yet none the more he stopp'd at all, 
But he rode a-gallop past the hall ; 
A!id left tliat lady singing at noon, 
Two red roses across tJie moon. 

Because, forsooth, the battle was set, 
And the scarlet and blue had got to be 

met. 
He rode on the spur till the next warm 

noon : 
Tivo red roses across the moon. 

But the battle was scatter'd from hill 

to hill. 
From the windmill to the watermill ; 
And he said to himself, as it near'd the 

noon, 
Two red roses across the moon. 

You scarce could see for the scarlet and 

blue, 
A golden helm or a golden shoe : 
So he cried, as the fight grew thick at 

tlie noon, 
Two red roses across the moon ! 

Verily then the gold bore through 

The huddled spears of the scarlet and 

blue ; 
And they cried, as they cut them down 

at the noon. 
Two red roses across the moon! 



I trow lie stopp'd when he rode again 
By the hall, though draggled .sore with 

the rain ; 
And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the 

noon 
Two red roses across the moon. 

Under the may she stoop'd to the crown' 
All was gold, there vv-as nothing of brown. 
And the horns blew up in the hallat noon, 
Two red roses across the moon. 1858. 

SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 1 

Ho ! is there ami rinll ride witJi. me. 
Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres '/ 

The clink of arms is good to hear, 
Tlie flap of pennons fair to see : 
Ho I is there any loill ride wifJi, me. 
Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres ? 

The leopards and lilies are fair to see ; 
St. George Guienne ! right good to hear : 
Ho! is til ere any irill ride n'ith me ; 
Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres ? 

I stood by the barrier. 
My coat being blazon "d fair to see ; 
Ho! is there any will ride ivith me. 
Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres f 

Clisson put out his head to see. 
And lifted his basnet up to hear ; 
I pull'd him through the bars to ME, 
Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres. 
1858. 

NEAR AVALON 

A SHIP with shields before the sun. 
Six maidens round the mast, 
A red-gold crown on every one, 
A green gown on the last. 

Tlie fluttering green banners there 

Are wrought with ladies' heads most 

fair. 
And a portraiture of Guenevere 
The middle of each sail dotli beai". 

A ship which sails before the wind, 
And round the helm six knights, 

' Browning: wrote to Morris, on the appearance 
of the Earthly Paradise : " It is a double deliglit 
to nie to i-ead such poetry, and know you, of all 
the world, wrote it, — you wliose sonars I used 
to sing while galloping" liy Fiesole in old days, - 
' Ho. is there any will ri(le with me ? ' "—(J. W. 
Mackail's Life of William Morris, Vol. I., p. 133.) 



MORRIS 



839 



Their heaumes are on, whereby, lialf 

blind, 
They pass by many siglits. 

The tatter'd scarlet banners there, 
Right soon will leave the spear-heads 

bare. 
Those six knights sorrowfully bear, 
In all their heaumes some yellow hair. 

1858. 

IN PRISON 

Wearily, drearily, 
Half tlie day long. 
Flap the great banners 
High over the stone ; 
Strangely and eerily 
Sounds the wind's song. 
Bending the banner-poles. 

While, all alone. 

Watching tlie loophole's spark. 

Lie I, with life all dark. 

Feet tether'd. hands fetter'd 

Fast to the stone, 

The grim wall, square letter'd 

With prison 'd men's groan. 

Still strain the banner-poles 
Through the wind's song. 
Westward tlie banner rolls 
Over my wrong. 1858. 

FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF 
JASON 

TO THE SEA 

O BITTER sea, tumultuous sea. 
Full many an ill is wrought by thee ! — 
Unto the wasters of the land 
Tliou boldest out thy wrinkled hand ; 
And when they leave the conquered 

town, 
Whose black smoke makes thy surges 

brown. 
Driven betwixt thee and the sun. 
As the long day of blood is done. 
From many a leagvie of glittering waves 
Thou smilest on them and their slaves. 

Tlie thin bright-eyed Plio3nician 
Thou drawest to thy waters wan. 
With ruddy eve and golden morn 
Thou temptest him, until, forlorn, 
Unburied, under alien skies 
Cast up ashore his body lies. 

Yea, whoso sees thee from his door, 
Must ever long for more and more ; 
Nor will the beechen bowl suffice, 



Or homespun robe of little price, 
Or hood well-woven from tlie fleece 
Undyed, or unspiced wine of Greece ; 
So sore his heart is set upon 
Purple, and gold, and cinnamon ; 
For as tliou cravest, so he craves, 
Until he rolls beneath thy waves. 
Nor in .some landlocked, unknown bay, 
Can satiate thee for one day. 

Now, therefore, O thou bitter sea. 
With no long words we pray to thee, 
But ask thee, hast thou felt before 
Such strokes of tlie long ashen oar ? 
And hast thou yet seen sucli a prow 
Thy rich and niggard waters plough ? 

Nor yet, O sea, shalt tliou be cursed, 
If at thy hands we gain tlie worst, 
And, wrapt in water, roll about 
Blind-eyed, unheeding song or shout, 
Within thine eddies far from shore, 
Warmed by no sunlight any more. 

Therefore, indeed, we joy in thee. 
And praise thy greatness, and will we 
Take at thy hands both good and ill, 
Yea, what thou wilt, and praise thee still, 
Enduring not to sit at home, 
And wait until the last days come. 
When we no more may care to hold 
White bosoms under crowns of gold, 
And our dulled hearts no longer are 
Stirred by the clangorous noise of war. 
And hope within our souls is dead. 
And no joy is remembered. 

So. if thou hast a mind to slay, 
Fair prize thou hast of us to-day ; 
And if thou hast a mind to save. 
Great praise and honor shalt thou have ; 
But whatsc; thou wilt do with us, 
Our end sliall not be piteous, _ 
Because our memories shall live 
When folk forget the way to drive 
The black keel through the heaped-up 

sea. 
And half dried up thy waters be. 1867. 

THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS ^ 

I know a little garden close 
Set thick with lilj' and red rose. 
Where I would wander if I might 
From dewy dawn to dewy night. 
And have one with me wandering. 

And though within it no birds sing. 
And though no pillared house is there, 

' This songr reappears under the titled Garden 
by the Sen in " Poems by the Way," 1891, with 
slight variations in the text, the most important 
of which is noted below. 



840 



BRITISH POETS 



And though the apple boughs are bare 
Of fruit and blossom, would to God, 
Her feet upon the green grass trod, 
And I beheld them as before. 

There comes a murmur from the shore, 
And in tlie place two fair streams are, 
Drawn from the purple hills afar. 
Drawn down unto tlie restless sea ; 
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee. 
The shore no sliip has ever seen. 
Still beaten by the billows green, 
Whose murmur comes unceasingly 
Unto the ]>lace for which I cry. 

For whicli I cry both day and night, 
For wliich I let slip all delight. 
That maketh me both deaf and blind. 
Careless to win, unskilled to find, . 
And quick to lose wliat all men seek. 

Yet tottering as I am, and weak. 
Still have I left a little breath 
To seek within the jaws of death 
An entrance to that happy place, 
To seek the unforgotten face 
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from 

me 
Anigh tlie murmuring of the sea. 1867. 

ORPHEUS' SONO OF TRIUMPH 

O death, that niakest life so sweet, 
O fear, with mirtli before thj^ feet. 
What liave ye yet in store for us. 
The conquerors, the glorious? 

Men say : ' " For fear tliat thou shouldst 

die 
To-morrow, let to-day jiass by 
Flower-crowned and singing," yet liavo 

we 
Passed our to-day upon the sea. 
Or in a poisonous unknown land. 
With fear and death on either hand, 
And listless when the day was done 
Have scarcely lioped to see tlie sun 
Dawn on the morrow of the earth. 
Nor in our hearts have thought of 

mirth. 
And while the world lasts, scarce again 
Shall any sons of men bear pain 
Like we have borne, yet be alive. 
So surely not in vain we strive 
Like other men for our reward ; 
Sweet peace and deep, the checkered 

sward 
Beneath the ancient mulberry trees, 
The smooth-paved gilded palaces, 

' In J Garden by the Sea, these three lines 
read : 
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, 
Dark shore no ship has ever seen, 
Tormented by the billows green. 



Wliere the shy tliin-clad damsels sweet 
Make music with their gold-ringed feet. 
The fountain court amidst of it. 
Where tlie short-haired slave-maidens 

sit. 
While on the veined pavement lie 
The lionied things and spicery 
Their arms have borne from out the 
town. 

The dancers on the thymy down 
In summer twiliglit, when the earth 
Is still of all things but their mirth, 
And echoes borne upon the wind 
Of others in like way entwined. 

The merchant-town's fair market- 
place. 
Where over many a changing face 
The pigeons of tlie temple flit. 
And still the outland merchants sit 
Like kings above their merchandise, 
Lying to foolish men and wise. 

Ah ! if they lieard that we were come 
Into the bay, and bringing home 
That which all men have talked about. 
Some men with rage, and some with 

doubt. 
Some with desire, and some with praise ; 
Then would the people throng the wajs, 
Nor heed the outland merchandise. 
Nor any talk, from fools or wise. 
But tales of our accomplished quest. 

What soul witliin tlie house shall rest 
When we come home ? The wily king 
Shall leave his throne to see the thing ; 
No man shall keep the landward gate, 
The liurried traveller sliall wait 
Until our bulwarks graze the quaj"^ ; 
Unslain the milk-white bull shall be 
Beside the quivering altar-flame ; 
Scarce shall the maiden clasp for shame 
Over her breast the raiment thin 
The morn that Argo cometh in. 

Then cometh happy life again 
That payeth well our toil and pain 
In that sweet hour, when all our woe 
But as a pensive tale we know. 
Nor yet remember deadly fear ; 
For surely now if death be near, 
Untliought-of is it, and unseen 
When sweet is, that hath bitter been. 

1867. 

SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS 

Sirens 

O HAPPY seafarers are ye. 

And surely all j'our ills are past, 

And toil uixm tlie land and sea. 
Since ye are brought to us at last. 



MORRIS 



841 



To you the fashion of the world. 

Wide lands laid waste, fair cities 
burned, 
And plagues, and kings from kingdoms 
hurled, 
Are nought, since hitlier ye have 
turned. 

For as upon this beach we stand, 
And o'er our heads tlie sea-fowl flit, 

Our eyes behold a glorious land, 
And soon shall ye be kings of it. 

Or2)hens 

A little more, a little more. 

O carriers of the Golden Fleece, 
A little labor with the oar. 

Before we reach the land of Greece. 

E'en now perchance faint rumors reach 
Men's ears of this our victory. 

And draw them down unto the beach 
To gaze across the empty sea. 

But since the longed-for day is nigh, 
And scarce a God could stay us now, 

Why do ye hang your heads and sigli, 
Hindering for nought our eager prow ? 

Sirens 

All. had ye chanced to reach the home 
On which youi' fond desires were set. 

Into what troubles had ye come ? 
Short love and joy, and long regret. 

But now, but now, when ye have lain 

Asleep with us a little while 
Beneath the washing of the main. 

How calm shall be your waking smile ! 

For ye shall smile to think of life 
That knows no troublous change or 
fear. 

No un vailing bitter strife. 
That ere its time brings trouble near. 

Orpheus 

Is there some murmur in your ears, 
That all that we have done is nought, 

And nothing ends our cares or fears. 
Till the last fear is on us brought ? 

Sirens 

Alas ! and will ye stop your ears. 

In vain desire to do aught. 
And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, 

Until the last fear makes you nought ? 



OrjJheus 

Is not the May-time now on earth. 
When close against the city wall 
The folks are singing in their mirth. 
While on their heads the Mav-flowers 
fall ? 

Sirens 

Yes, IMay is come, and its sweet Ijreath 
Siiall well-nigh make you weep to-da}'. 

And jjensive with swift-coming death. 
Shall ye be satiate of the May. 

Shall not July bring fresh delight. 
As underneath green trees ye sit. 

And o'er some damsel's body white 
The noontide shadows change and 
flit ? 

Sirens 

No new delight July shall bring 
But ancient fear and fresh desire, 

And spite of every lovely thing. 
Of July surely shall you tire. 

Orjiheus 

And now, when August comes on thee, 
And 'mid the golden sea of corn 

The merry reapers thou mayst see, 
Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn ? 

Sirens 

Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, 
And in thine heart forgetful ness 

Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread. 
And weary of those days no less. 

Orjilietis 

Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill. 

In the October afternoon. 
To watch the purple eartli's blood till 

The gray vat to the maiden's tune? 

Sirens 

When thou beginnest to grow old. 
Bring back remembrance of thy bliss 

With tliat the shining cup doth hold, 
And weary helplessly of this. 

OrpJieus 

Or pleasureless shall we pass by 
The long cold night and leaden day, 

That song, and tale, and minstrelsy 
Shall make as merry as the May ? 



842 



BRITISH POETS 



Sirens 

List tlien. to-night, to some old tale 
Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes ; 

But what shall all these tilings avail. 
When sad to-morrow comes and dies ? 

OrjjJieiis 

And when the world is horn again, 
And with some fair love, side by side, 

Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, 
In that fresli love-begetting tide ; 

Then, when the world is born again. 
And the sweet world before tliee lies, 

Shall thy .heart think of coming pain, 
Or vex itself with memories ? 

Sirens 

Ah ! then the world is born again 
Witii burning love unsatisfied. 

And new desires fond and vain. 
And weary days from tide to tide. 

Ah ! when the world is born again, 

A little day is soon gone by, 
When thou, unmoved by sun or rjiin. 

Within a cold straight house shalt lie. 



Ah. will ye go, and whither then 
Will ye go from us, soon to die. 

To fill your three-score years and ten, 
With many an unnamed miser}' ? 

And this the wretchedest of all, 
Tliat when upon your lonely eyes 

The last faint heaviness sliall fall 
Ye shall bethink you of our cries. 

Come back, nor grown old, seek in vain 
To hear us sing across tlie sea. 

Come back, come back, come back again. 
Come back, O fearful Minyae ! 

Oi'j)1ieus 

Ah, once again, ah, once again. 
The black prow plunges through the 
sea. 

Nor yet shall all vour toil be vain, 
Nor yet forgot,"^0 Minyae. 1867. 

INVOCATION TO CHAUCER 

(From the last hook of the Life and Death 
of Jason ) 

So ends the winning of tlie Golden 
Fleece — 



So ends the tale of that sweet i-est and 

peace 
That unto Jason and his love befell ; 
Another story now my tongue must tell, 
And tremble in the telling. Would 

that I 
Had but some portion of that mastery 
That from the rose-hung lanes of woody 

Kent 
Through these five hundred years such 

songs liave sent 
To us, wlro meshed within this smoky 

net 
Of unrejoicing labor, love them j^et. 
And tliou, O Master ! — Yea, my Master 

still, 
Whatever feet have scaled Parnassus' 

hill, 
Since like thy measures, clear and sweet 

and strong, 
Thames' stream scarce fettered drave the 

dace along 
Unto tlie bastioned bridge, his only 

chain. — 

Master, pardon me, if yet in vain 
Tliou art my Master, and I fail to bring 
Before men's ej'es the image of the thing 
My lieart is filled with : thou whose 

dreamy eyes 
Beheld tlie flush to Cressid's cheeks arise, 
When Troilus rode up tlie i^raising street. 
As clearly as they saw thy townsmen 

meet [stood 

Those who in vineyards of Poictou with- 
Tlie glittering horror of the steel-topped 

wood. 1867. 

AN APOLOGY 

PROLOGUE OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to 
sing, 

1 c!annot ease the burden of your fears. 
Or make quick-coming death a little 

thing, 
Or bring again the pleasure of past years. 
Nor for my words shall ye forget your 

tears. 
Or hope again for avight that I can say, 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

But rather, when aweary of your mirth. 
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, 
And, feeling kindly unto all the eartli, 
Grudge everj' minute as it passes b}'. 
Made the more mindful that tlie sweet 

days die — 
— Remember me a little then I pray, 
Tlie idle singer of an enijity day. 



MORRIS 



843 



The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
That weighs us down who live and earn 

our bread, 
These idle verses have no power to bear ; 
So let me sing of names remembered, 
Because they, living not, can ne'er be 

dead. 
Or long time take their memory quite 

away 
From us poor singers of an empty day. 

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 

time. 
Why should I strive to set the crooked 

straight ? 
Let it suffice me that my murmuring 

rhyme 
Beats with light wing against the ivory 

gate. 
Telling a tale not too importunate 
To those who in the sleepy region stay, 
Lulled by the singer of an einpty day. 

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king 



At Christmas-tide such wondrous things 

did show, 
That tln-ough one window men beheld 

the spring, 
And through another saw the summer 

glow, 
And through a third the fi'uited vines 

a-row, 
While still, unheard, but in its wonted 

way. 
Piped the drear wind of that December 

day. 

So with this Earthly Paradise it is. 
If ye will read arigiit. and pardon me, 
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of 

bliss 
Midmost the beating of the steely sea. 
Where tossed about all hearts of men 

must be ; 
Whose ravening monsters mighty men 

shall slay, 
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 

1868. 



ATALANTA'S RACE 



ARGUMENT 



Atalanta, daughter of King SchcBneus, not willing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a law to all 
suitors that they should run a race with her in the public place, and if they failed to over- 
come her should die unrevenged ; and thus many brave men perished. At last' came Milanion, 
the son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the help of Venus, gained the virgin anil 
wedded her. 



Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter 

went, 
Following the beasts upon a fresh spring 

day; 
But since his horn-tipped bow but seldom 

bent. 
Now at the noontide nought had happed 

to slay. 
Within a vale he called his hounds away, 
Harkening the echoes of his lone voice 

cling 
About the cliffs and through the beech- 

1 trees ring. 

*' But when they ended, still awhile he 
stood. 
And but the sweet fainiliar thrush could 
hear. 
And all tlie day-long noises of the wood, 
And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished 

year 
His hounds' feet pattering as they drew 
anear, 



And heavy breathing from their heads 

low hung. 
To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 

Then smiling did he turn to leave the 

place. 
But with his first step some new fleeting 

thought 
A shadow cast across his sun-bunit 

face ; 
I think the golden net that April 

brought 
From some warm world his wavering 

soul had caught ; 
For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did lie 

go 
Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps 

and slow. 

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 
The trees grew sparser, and tlie wood 
was done ; [ciist, 

Whereon one farewell backward look he 



844 



BRITISH POETS 



Tlien, turning round to see what place 

was won, 
With shaded eyes looked underneath the 

sun, 
And o'er green meads and new-turned 

furrows brown 
Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' 

town. 

So thitherward he turned, and on each 

side 
The folk were busy on the teeming 

land, 
And man and maid from the brown fur- 
rows cried, 
Or midst the newlj' blossomed vines did 

stand, 
And as the rustic weapon pressed the 

hand 
Thought of the nodding of the well-filled 

ear, 
Or how the knife the heavy buncli should 

shear. 

Merry it was : about him sung the 

birds, 
Tlie spring flowers bloomed along the 

firm dr\- road, 
Tlie sleek-skinned mothers of tlie sliarp- 

horned herds 
Now for the barefoot milking-maidens 

lowed ; 
While from the freshness of his blue 

abode. 
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget. 
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered 

plagues as yet. 

Through such fair things unto the gates 

he came, 
And found them open, as though peace 

were there ; 
Wherethrough, unquestioned of his 

race or name. 
He entered, and along the streets 'gan 

fare, 
Which at the first of folk were well-nigh 

bare ; 
But pressing on, and going more hastily, 
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 

Following t]ie last of these he still 
pressed on, 

Until an open space he came unto. 

Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost 
and won. 

For feats of strength folks there were 
wont to do. 

And now our hunter looked for some- 
thing new, 



Because the whole wide space was bare, 

and stilled 
The high seats were, with eager people 

filled. 

Tliere with the others to a seat he gat, 
Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
'Neath which in fair array King Shoeneus 

sat 
Upon his throne witli councillors 

thereby : 
And underneath his well-wrought seat 

and high, 
He saw a golden image of the sun, 
A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. 

A brazen altar stood beneath thtii- feet 
Whereon a thin flame flicker'd in the 

wind ; 
Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 
Made ready even now his horn to wind, 
By whom a huge man held a sword , 

entwin'd 
With j^ellow flowers ; these stood a little 

space 
From off the altar, nigh the starting 

place. 

And there two runners did the sign 

abide. 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and 

fair, 
Crisp-Jiair'd, well knit, with firm limbs 

often tried 
In places where no man his strengtli may 

spare : 
Dainty liis tliin coat was, and on his hair 
A golden circlet of renown lie wore, 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall lie con- 
tend ? 

A maid stood by him like Diana clad 

When in the woods she lists her bow to 
bend, 

Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 

Who scarcely yet has thirty summers 
had. 

If he must still lieliold her from afar ; 

Too fair to let the world live free from 
war. 

She seem'd all earthly matters to forget : 
Of all toruaenting lines lier face was 

clear ; 
Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were 

set 
Calm and umov'd as though no soul were 

near. 



MORRIS 



845 



But lier foe trembled as a man in fear, 
Nor from her loveliness one moment 

turn'd 
His anxious face with fierce desire that 

burn'd. 

Now through the hush there broke the 

trumpet's clang 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
Theu from light feet a spurt of dust 

there sprang. 
And swiftly were tliey running side by 

side ; 
But silent did the thronging folk abide 
Until the turning-post was reach'd at 

last, 
And round about it still abreast they 

passed. 

But wlien the people saw how close they 

ran, 
Wlien half-way to the starting-point 

they were, 
A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the 

man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew 

near 
Unto tlie very end of all his fear ; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground 

could feel, 
And bliss unhop'd for o'er his heart 'gan 

steal. 

But 'midst the loud victorious shouts he 

heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the 

sound 
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat 

afeai'ed 
His flusli'tl and eager face he turn'd 

around, 
And even then he felt her past him 

bound 
Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her 

there 
Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

Tiiere stood she breathing like a little 

child 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
For no victorious jo\^ her red lips smil'd. 
Her cheek its wonted freshness did but 

keep : 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and 

deep. 
Though some divine thought soften 'd all 

her face 
As once more rang tiie trumpet through 

the place. 



But her late foe stopp'd short amidst his 

course, 
One moment gaz'd upon her piteously. 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did 

force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes 

could see ; 
And, changed like one who knows his 

time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 
He knelt before tlie bearer of the sword ; 

Tlien high rose up the gleaming deadly 

blade, 
Bar'd of its flowers, and through the 

crowded place 
Was silence now, and midst of it the 

maid 
Went bj' the poor wretch at a gentle 

pace, 
And he to hers upturn'd his sad white 

face ; 
Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal light. 



So was the pageant ended, and all folk 

Talking of this and tliat familiar thing 

In little groups from tliat sad concourse 
broke. 

For now the shrill bats were upon the 
wing. 

And soon dark night would slay the 
evening. 

And in dark gardens sang the nightin- 
gale 

Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 

And with the last of all the hunter went. 
Who, wondering at the strange sight he 

had seen. 
Prayed an old man to tell him what it 

meant. 
Both why the vanquished man so slain 

had been. 
And if the maiden were an earthly 

queen. 
Or rather what much more slie seemed 

to be, 
No sharer in this world's mortality. 

" Stranger," said he, " I pray she soon 

may die 
Whose lovely youth has slain so many 

an one I 
King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily. 
Who wlien lier eyes first looked upon the 

sun 
Was fain to end lier life but new begun, 



846 



BRITISH POETS 



For he had vowed to leave but men 

alone 
Sprung from his loins vi'hen he from 

earth was gone. 

♦' Therefore he bade one leave her in 

the wood. 
And let wild things deal with her as 

they might, 
But this being done, some cruel god 

thovight good 
To save lier beauty in the woi'ld's 

despite ; 
Folk say that lier, so delicate and wliite 
As now she is, a rough root-grubbing 

bear 
Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did 

rear. 

" In course of time the woodfolk slew 
her nurse, 

And to their rude abode the youngling 
brought. 

And reared her up to be a kingdom's 
curse ; 

Who grown a woman, of no kingdom 
thought, 

But armed and swift, 'mid beasts de- 
struction wrought, 

Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to 
slay 

To whom lier body seemed an easy prey. 

" So to this city, led by fate, she came 
Whom known by signs, wliereof I 

cannot tell, 
King Schoeneus for his child at last did 

claim. 
Nor otlierwhere since that day doth she 

dwell 
Sending too many a noble soul to hell — 
What ! thine eyes glisten ! what tlien, 

thinkest thou 
Her shining head unto the yoke to bow ? 

" Listen, my son, and love some other 

maid 
For she the saffron gown will never 

wear, 
And on no flower-strewn couch shall 

she be laid. 
Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's 

ear : 
Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear. 
Yea, rather, if thou lov'st him utterly, 
Tliou still may'st woo her ere thou 

com'st to die, 

" Like him that on this day thou sawest 
lie dead ; 



For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one. 

The maid has vowed e'en sucli a man to 
wed 

As in tlie course her swift feet can out- 
run. 

But wlioso fails herein, his days are 
done : 

He came the nigliest that was slain to- 
day, 

Although with him I deem she did but 
play. 

" Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 
To those that long to win her loveliness ; 
Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there 

lives 
Gentler than she, of beauty little less. 
Whose swimming eyes thy loving words 

shall bless. 
When in some garden, knee set close to 

knee. 
Thou sing'st the song that love may 

teach to thee." 

So to the hunter spake that ancient man. 

And left him for his own home pre- 
sently : 

But he turned round, and through the 
moonlight wan 

Reached tlie thick wood, and there 
'tu'ixt tree and tree 

Distraught he passed the long night 
feverishly, 

'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn 
ai'ose 

To wage hot war against his speechless 
foes. 

Tliere to the hart's flank seemed liis 

shaft to grow. 
As panting down the broad green glades 

lie flew, 
There by his horn the Dryads well might 

know 
His tlirust against the bear's heart had 

been true, 
And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew. 
But still in vain through rough and 

smooth he went. 
For none the more his restlessness was 

spent. 

So wandering, he to Argive cities came, 
And in the lists with valiant men he 

stood, 
And by great deeds he won him praise 

and fame. 
And heajis of wealth for little-valued 

blood ; 



MORRIS 



847 



But none of all these things, or life, 

seemed good 
Unto liis heart, wliere still unsatisfied 
A ravenous longing warred with fear 

and pride. 

Therefore it happed when but a month 

had gone 
Since he had left King Schoeneus' city 

old. 
In hunting-gear again, again alone 
The forest-bordered meads did he behold, 
Where still mid thoughts of August's 

quivering gold 
Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the 

vine in trust 
Of faint October's purple-foaming must. 

And once again he passed the peaceful 

gate, 
While to his beating heart his lips did 

lie. 
That owning not victoriovis love and fate, 
Said, half aloud, " And here too must I 

try, 
To win of alien men the mastery, 
And gather for my head fresh meed of 

fame 
And cast new glory on my father's 

name." 

In spite of that, how beat his heart, 

when first 
Folk said to him, "And art thou come 

to see 
That which still makes our city's name 

accurst 
Among all mothers for its cruelty ? 
Then know indeed that fate is good to 

thee 
Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
Against the whitefoot maid is pledged 

to run." 

So on the morrow with no curious eyes 
As once he did, that piteous sight he 

saw. 
Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 
As toward the goal the conquering maid 

'gan di'aw. 
Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, 
Too full the pain of longing filled his 

heart 
For fear or wonder there to have a part. 

But O, how long the night was ere it 

went ! 
How long it was before the dawn begun 
Showed to the wakening birds the sun's 

intent 



Tliat not in darkness sliould the world 

be done ! 
And then, and then, how long before 

the sun 
Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
Get fortli to fruitless cares or empty 

mirth ! 

And long it seemed that in tlie market- 
place 

He stood and saw the chaffering folk 
go by. 

Ere froni the ivory throne King Schoe- 
neus' face 

Looked down upon the murmur royally. 

But then came trembling that the time 
was nigli 

When he midst pitying looks his love 
must chiim. 

And jeering voices must salute his name. 

But as the throng lie pierced to gain tiie 

throne, 
His alien face distraught and anxious 

told 
What hopeless errand he was bound 

upon. 
And, each to eacli, folk wliispered to 

behold 
His godlike limbs ; nav, and one woman 

old 
As he went by must jiluck him by the 

sleeve 
And pray liim jet tliat wretched love to 

leave. 

For sidling up slie said, "' Canst thou 

live twice. 
Fair son ? canst thou have joyful youth 

again. 
That thus thou goest to the sacrifice 
Tliy self tbe victim ? nay then, all in vain 
Thy mother bore her longing and her 

pain, 
And one more maiden on the earth must 

dwell 
Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and 

hell. 

'' O, fool, thou knowest not the compact 

then 
That with the three-formed goddess she 

has made 
To keep her from the loving lips of men, 
And in no saffron gown to be arrayed. 
And therewithal with glory to be paid. 
And love of her the moonlit river sees 
Wliite 'gainst the shadow of the formless 

trees. 



BRITISH POETS 



" Come back, and I myself will piay 

for thee 
Unto the sea-born framer of delights, 
To give thee her who on the earth may be 
The fairest stirrer up to death and fights, 
To quencli with hopeful da5'S and joyous 

nights 
The flame that doth thy youthful heart 

consume : 
Come back, nor give thy beauty to the 

tomb." 

How should he listen to her earnest 

speech ? 
Words, such as he not once or twice had 

sjiid 
Unto himself, wiiose nieaning scarce 

could reach 
Tlie firm abode of that sad hardihead — 
He turned about, and through the 

marketstead 
Swiftly he passed, until before the 

throne 
In the cleared space he stood at last 

alone. 

Then said the King, "Stranger, what 

dost thou here ? 
Have any of my folk done ill to thee ? 
Or art thou of the forest men in fear ? 
Or art thou of the sa<l fraternity' 
Who still will strive my daughter's mates 

to be, 
Staking their lives to win an earthly 

bliss, 
The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?" 

'• O King," he said "thou sayest the 

word indeed : 
Nor will I quit tlie strife till I have won 
My sweet delight, or death to end my 

need. 
And know that I am called Milanion, 
Of King Amphidamas the well-loved 

son : 
So fear not that to thy old name. O King, 
Much loss or shame my victory will 

bring. " 

"Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "wel- 
come to this land 

Thou wert indeecL, if thou wert here to 
try 

Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty 
of his hand ; 

Nor would we grudge thee well-won 
mastery. 

But no\v, why wilt tiiou come to me to 
die. 



And at my door lay down thy luckless 

head. 
Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 

" Wliose curses even now my heart doth 

fear ? 
Lo. I am old. and know what life can be, 
And what a bitter thing is death anear. 
O. Son ! be wise, anil harken unto me. 
And if no otiier can be dear to thee, 
At least as now, yet is the world full 

wide. 
And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may 

hide : 

•• But if thou losest life, then all is 

lost." 
" Na}', King," Milanion said, "thy words 

are vain. 
Doubt not that I have counted well the 

cost. 
But sa}',_on what day wilt thou that I 

gain 
Fulfilled delight, or deatli to end my 

pain. 
Right glad were I if it could be to-day, 
And all ni}' doubts' at rest for ever lay." 

"Nay,'' said King Schoeneus, " thus it 

shall not be. 
But rather shalt thou let a month go by. 
And weary with th}' praj'ers for victorj' 
What god thou know'st the kindest and 

most nigh. 
So doing, still perchance thou shalt not 

die: 
And with my goodwill wouldst thou 

liave the maid. 
For of the equal gods I grow afraid. 

" And until then, O Prince, be thou my 
guest, 

And all these troublous things awhile 
forget." 

" Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my 
soul good rest. 

And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 

Tlien had I 'scai)ed the meshes of the 
net, [word ; 

Nor shouldstthou hear from me another 

But now, make sharp thy fearful head- 
ing-sword. 

" Yet will I do what son of man may do. 
And promise all the gods may most 

desire. 
That to myself I may at least be true : 
And on that day my heart and limbs so 

tire, 



MORRIS 



849 



Witli utmost strain and measureless de- 
sire, 
That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
When in the sunlight round that sword 
shall sweep." 

He went therewith, nor anywhere would 

bide. 
But unto Argos restlessly did wend ; 
And there, as one who la^^s all hope aside. 
Because the leech has said his life must 

end, 
Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend. 
And took his way unto the restless sea, 
' For there he deemed his rest and help 

.aight be. 

Upon the shore of Ai'golis there stands 
A temple to the goddess that he sought, 
That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands. 
Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath 

no thought, 
Tliough to no homestead there the 

sheaves are brought, 
No groaning press torments the close- 
clipped murk, 
Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's 
, work. 

Pass through a close, set thick with 

myrtle-trees, 
Through the brass doors that guard the 

lioly place, 
And entering, hear the washing of the 

seas 
That twice a-day I'ise high above the base, 
And with the •south-west urging them, 

embrace 
The marble feet of her that standeth 

there 
Tliat shrink not, naked though they be 

and fair. 

Small is the fane through which the sea- 
wind sings 

About Queen Venus' well-wrought image 
white. 

But hung around are many precious 
tilings, 

The gifts of those who, longing for de- 
light. 

Have hung them there within the god- 
dess' sight, 

And in return have taken at her hands 

Tlie living treasures of the Grecian lands. 

And thither now has come Milanion, 
And sliowed unto the priests' wide open 

eyes 

54 



Gifts fairer than all those that there 

have shone. 
Silk cloths, inwrought wMth Indian 

fantasies, 
And bowls inscribed with sayings of the 

wise 
Above the deeds of foolish living things ; 
And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 

And now before the Sea-born One he 
stands, 

By the sweet veiling smoke made dim 
and soft. 

And while the incense trickles from his 
hands, 

And while the odorous smoke-wreaths 
hang aloft, 

Thus doth he pray to her: '• O Thou, 
who oft 

Hast holpen man and maid in their dis- 
tress 

Despise me not for this my wretchedness ! 

" O goddess, among us who dwell below, 
Kings and great men, great for a little 

while, 
Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 
Nor iiate the hearts that love them with- 
out guile ; 
Wilt thou be worse than these, and is 

thy smile 
A vain device of him wlio set thee here, 
An empty dream of some artificer ? 

"O great one, some men love, and are 
ashamed ; 

Some men are weary of the bonds of love ; 

Yea, and by some men lightly art thou 
blamed, 

That from thy toils their lives they can- 
not move. 

And 'mid tlie ranks of men their man- 
hood prove. 

Alas ! O goddess, if thou slayest me 

What new immortal can I serve but thee ? 

" Think then, will it bring honor to thy 

head 
If folk say, ' Everything aside he cast 
And to all fame and honor was he dead, 
And to his one hope now is dead at last, 
Since all unholpen he is gone and past : 
Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly. 
He to his helper did not cease to cry.' 

" Nay, but thou wilt help ; they who died 

before 
Not single-hearted as I deem came here. 
Therefore unthanked they laid their 
i gifts before 



850 



BRITISH POETS 



Thy stayiless feet, still shivering Avitli 

tlieir fear, 
Lest in their eyes their true tliought 

might appear, 
Who sought to be the lords of that fair 

town. 
Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 

" O Queen, tliou knowest I pray not for 

tliis : 
O sat us down together in some place 
Where not a voice can break our lieaven 

of bliss. 
Where nouglit but rocks and T can see 

her face. 
Softening beneatli the marvel of thy 

. grace, 
Where, not a foot our vanished steps can 

track — 
The golden age, the golden age come 

back ! 

" O fairest, hear me now who do tin' 

will, 
Plead for thy rebel tluit slie be not slain, 
But live and love and be thv servant 

still ; 
Ah, give lier joy and take away my pain. 
And thus two long-enduring servants 

gain. 
An easy tiling this is to do for me, 
What need of my vain words to weary 

thee. 

" But none the less, this place will I not 

leave 
Until I needs must go my death to meet. 
Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 
Tliat in great joy we twain may one day 

greet 
Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. 
Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all 

words, 
Victorious o'er our servants and our 

lords." 

Then from the altar back a space he 
drew. 

But from tlie Queen turned not his face 
away. 

But 'gainst a pillarleaned, until the blue 

That arched the sky, a^ ending of tlie 
day. 

Was turned to ruddy gold and changing 
giay, 

And clear, but low, the nigli-ebbed 
windless sea 

In the still evening murmured cease- 
lessly. 



And tiiere he stood when all the sun was 
down. 

Nor had he moved, when the dim golden 
light, 

Like the far lustre of a godlike town. 

Had left the world to seeming hopeless 
night. 

Nor would he move the more when wan 
moonlight 

Streamed thiough the pillars for a little 
while, 

And lighted up the white Queen's change- 
less smile. 

Nought noted he the shallow-flowing sea 

As step b}' step it set the wrack a-swim . 

The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 

Wherein with fluttering gown and half- 
bared limb 

The temple damsels sung their midnight 
hj'mn : 

And nought the doubled stillness of the 
fane 

When they were gone and all was hushed 
again. 

But when the waves had touched tlie 

marble base, 
And steps the fish swim over twice a-day,' 
The dawn beheld him sunken in his 

place 
Upon the floor ; and sleeping there he 

lay, 

Not heeding aught the little jets of spra v 
The roughened sea brought nigh, acros 

him cast. 
For as one dead all thought from him 

had passed. 

Yet long before the sun had showed his 

head. 
Long ere the varied hangings on the 

wall 
Had gained once more their blue and 

green and red, 
He rose as one some well-known sign 

doth call 
When war upon 'the city's gates doth 

fall,. " 
And scarce m^ )ne fresh risen out of 

sleep. 
He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 

Then he turned round ; not for the sea- 
gull's cry 

That wheeled above the temple in his 
flight, 

Not for the fresh south wind that lov- 
ingly 



MORRIS 



851 



I 



Breatlirtd on the new-born day and dying 

niglit, 
But some strange hope 'twixt fear and 

great deliglit 
Drew round his face, now flushed, now 

pale and wan. 
And still constrained his eyes the sea to 

scan. 

Now a faint light lit up the southern sky 
N0I sun or moon, for all the world was 

gray, 
l!i;: tills a bright cloud seemed, tliat 

drew anigli, 
' 'v-'iting the dull waves tliat beneath it 

lay 
'■ T oward the temple still it took its 

way, 
■'. iiii still grew greater, till Milanion 
^i'.v nought for dazzling light that round 

him shone. 

!ir IS lie staggered with his arms out- 
spread, 
.'•;;i>'ious unnamed odors breathed 

around. 
, 'or languid liappiness he bowed liis liead . 
Vrhi with wet eyes sank down upon tiie 
ground, 
'Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he 

found 
To give him reason for that ha])piness. 
Or make him ask more knowledge of his 
bliss. 

']| last his eyes were cleared, and he 

could see 
Through happy tears the goddess face to 

face 
Witli that faint image of Divinity, 
Whose well-wrought smile and dainty 

changeless grace 
Until that morn so gladdened all the 

place ; 
Tlienhe, unwitting cried aloud her name 
And covered up his eyes for fear and 

shame. 

But tlu-ough the stillness he her voice 
could liear 

Piercing his heart with joy scarce bear- 
able. 

That said. •' Mihiiiion, wherefore dost 
tiiou feai', 

I am nut hard to those wlio love me 
well ; 

List to^vhat I a second time will tell, 

And tliou mayest hear perchance, and 
live to save 

The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 



'• See, by my feet three golden apples 

lie- 
Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, 
Such fruit my watchful damsels care- 
fully 
Store up within the best loved of my 

walls. 
Ancient Damascus, wliere the lover calls 
Above my unseen head, and faint and 

liglit 
Tiie rose-leaves flutter round me in the 
night. 

'• And note, that these are not alone most 
fair 

With heavenly gold, but longing strange 
they bring 

Unto the hearts of men, who will not 
care 

Beliolding these, for any once-loved thing 

Till round the shining sides their fingers 
cling. 

And thou shalt see thy well-girt swift- 
foot maid 

By sight of these amidst her glory stayed. 

'• For bearing these within a scrip with 
. thee. 
When first she heads thee from the 

starting-place 
Cast down the first one for her eyes to 

see. 
And when she turns aside make on 

apace, 
And if again she heads thee in the race 
Spare not the other two to cast aside 
If she not long enough behind will bide. 

" Farewell, and wlien has come the 

happy time 
That she Diana's raiment must unbind 
And all the world seems blessed with 

Saturn's clime. 
And tiiou with eager arms about her 

twined 
Beholdest first her gray eyes growing 

kind. 
Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely 

then 
Forget the Helper of unhappy men." 

^Milanion raised his head at this last 
word 

For now so soft and kind she seemed to 
be 

No longer of her Godhead was he feared : 

Too late he looked ; for nothing could 
he see 

But the white image glimmering doubt- 
fully 



852 



BRITISH POETS 



111 tlie departing twiliglit cold and graj', 
And tlxose tliree apples on the step that 
lay. 

These then he caught up quivering with 

delight, 
Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream ; 
And though aweary with the watchful 

night, 
And sleepless nights of longing, still did 

deem 
He could not sleep ; but yet the first 

sunbeam 
That smote the fane across the lieaving 

deep 
Shone on him laid in calm, untroubled 

sleeiJ. 

But little ere the noontide did he rise. 
And why he felt so happy scarce could 

tell 
Until tlie gleaming apples met his ej'es. 
Then leaving the fair place where this 

befell 
Oft he looked back as one who loved it 

well. 
Then homeward to the haunts of men, 

'gan wend 
To bring all things unto a happy end. 



Now has the lingering month at last 

gone by. 
Again are all folk i-ound the running 

place, 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantrj"- 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course read}' for 

the race, 
For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has look'd 

ujion. 

But yet — what change is this that holds 

the maid ? 
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
Moi-e than disdain of the sharp shearing 

blade, 
Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
The others seem'd to say, "We come to 

die ; 
Look down upon us for a little while. 
That, dead, we may bethink us of thy 

smile." 

But he — what look of mastery was this 
He cast on her? why were hislij^sso red ; 
Why was his face so Unsh'd with hap- 
piness ? 



So looks not one who deems himself but 

dead. 
E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 
So rather looks a god well pleas'd to find 
Some earthly damsel fashion'd to his 

mind. 

Why must she drop her lids before his 

gaze, 
And even as she casts adown her ej'es 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
And wish that she were clad in other 

guise ? 
Why must the memoiy to her heart arise 
Of things unnoticed when they first weie 

heard, 
Some lover's song, some answering 

maiden's word ? 

What makes these longings, vague, 

without a name, 
And this vain pity never felt before. 
This sudden languor, this contempt of 

fame, 
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, 
These doubts that grow each minute 

more and more ? 
Why does she tremble as the time grows 

near. 
And weak defeat and woeful victory 

fear ? 

But while she seem'd to hear her beat- 
ing heart. 

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang 
out 

And forth they sprang, and she must 
jilay her part ; 

Then flew her white feet, knowing not a 
doubt. 

Though, slackening once, she turn'd her 
head about. 

But then she cried aloud and faster fled 

Than e'er before, and all men deemed 
him dead. 

But with no sound he raised aloft his 

hand. 
And thence what seemed a ray of light 

there flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the 

sand ; 
Then trembling she her feet together 

drew 
And in her heart a strong desire there 

grew 
To have the toy ; some god she thought 

iiad given [heaven. 

That gift to her, to make of earth a 



MORRIS 



853 



Then from the course with eager steps 
she ran, 

And in her odorous bosom hiid the gold. 

But when she turned again, the great- 
limbed man. 

Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 

and mindful of her glory waxing cold, 

Sprang up and followed him in hot 
pursuit, 

Though with one hand she touclied the 
golden fruit. 

\ote too, the bow that she was wont to 
bear 
le laid aside to grasp the glittering 
prize, 
' nd o'er her shoulder from the quiver 

fair 

Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 

nnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 

le sprang to head the strong Milanion, 

WHio now the turning-post had well-nigh 

won. 

i^ut as he set his mighty hand oii it 

'. ''hite fingers underneath his own were 

laid. 
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes 

did flit, 
Then he the second fruit cast by the 

maid : 
She ran awhile, and then as one afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and 

made no stay. 
Until the globe with its bright fellow 

lay. 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast 
around. 

Now far ahead the Argive could slie see. 

And in her garment's hem one hand she 
wound 

To keep the double prize, and stren- 
uously 

Sped o'er tlie course, and little doul)t 
had she 

To win the day, tliough now but scanty 
space 

Was left betwixt liim and tlie winning 
place. 

Short was the way unto such winged 

feet. 
Quickly she gained upon him till at last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet 
And from his hand the third fair apple 

cast. 
She wavered not, but turned and ran so 

fast 



After the prize that should her bliss ful- 
fil. 
Tliat in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to 

win 
Once more, an unblest woeful victory — 
And yet — and yet — why does her breath 

begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow 

dim ? 
Why do these ti'emors run through every 

limb ? 

She spreads her arms abroad some stay 

to find 
Else must slie fall, indeed, and findeth 

this, 
A strong man's arms about her body 

twined. 
Nor may she shudder now to feel his 

kiss, 
So wrapped she is in new unbroken 

bliss : 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath 

won, 
Slie weeps glad tears for all her glory 

done. 



Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the 

posts ! 
Upon tlie brazen altar break the sword, 
And scatter incense to appease the 

ghosts 
Of those wlio died here by their own 

award. 
Bring forth the image of the mighty 

Lord. 
And her who unseen o'er the runners 

liung. 
And did a deed for ever to be sung. 

Here are the gathered ft)llv; make no 

delay. 
Open King Scluwneus' well-filled trea- 
sury. 
Bring out the gifts long hid from light 

of day. 
The golden bowls o'erwrought with 

imagery. 
Gold chains, and unguents brought 

from over sea, 
The saffron gown the old Phoenician 

brought. 
Within the temple of the Goddess 

wrought. 



854 



BRITISH POETS 



O ye, O damsels, who shall never see 
Her, that Love's servant, bringeth now 

to 3'ou, 
Returning from another victory, 
In some cool bower do all that now is 

due ! 
Since she in token of lier service new 
Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow. 
Her maiden zone, her arrows and her 

bow, 1868. 

SONG FROM THE STORY OF CUPID 
AND PSYCHE 

O PENSIVE, tender maid, downcast and 

shy. 
Who turnest pale e'en at the name of 

love. 
And witli flushed face must pass the 

elm-tree by, 
Ashamed to hear the passionate gray 

dove 
Moan to his mate, thee too the god 

shall move, 
Thee too the maidens shall ungird one 

day, 
And with thy girdle put thy shame 

away. 

What, then, and shall white winter 
ne'er be done 

Because the glittering frosty morn is 
fair ? 

Because against the early-setting sun 

Bright show the gilded boughs, though 
waste and bare ? 

Because the robin singeth free from 
care ? 

Ah ! these are memories of aibetter day^ 

When on earth's face the lips of sum- 
mer lay. 

Come, then, beloved one, for such as 

thee 
LoAe loveth, and their hearts he know- 

eth well. 
Who hoard their moments of felicity. 
As misers hoard the medals that they 

tell. 
Lest on the earth but paupers they 

sliould dwell : 
" We hide our love to bless another day ; 
The world is hard, youth passes quick," 

they say. 

Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget 
Amidst your outpoured love that j'ou 
must die, [querors yet. 

Then ye, my servants, were death's con- 



Aiid love to you sl)ould be eternity, 
How quick soever miglit the days go bj: 
Yes, ye are made immortal on tlie day 
Ye cease the dusty grains of time to 
weigh. 

Thou harkenest, love? O make no 

semblance tlien 
That thou art loved, but as thy custom 

is 
Turn thy gray eyes away from eyes of 

men. 
With hands down-dropped, that tremble 

witli thy bliss. 
With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's 

kiss ; 
Call this eternity wliich is to-day. 
Nor dream tliat tliis our love can 7)ass 

away. 1868. 

JUNE 

O June, O June, that we desired so. 
Wilt thou not make us happy on this 

day ? 
Across the river thy soft breezes blow 
Sweet with the scent of beanfielils far 

awa3\ 
Above our heads riistle the aspens gray, 
Calm is the sky with harmless clouds 

beset. 
No thought of storm the morning vexes 

yet. 

See, we have left our liopes and fears be- 
hind 

To give our very hearts uj) unto thee ; 

What better place than this then could 
we find 

By this sweet stream that knows not of 
the sea. 

That guesses not the city's misery. 

This little stream whose hamlets scarce 
have names, 

This far-off, lonely mother of 11 le 
Thames? 

Here then, O June, thy kindness will 

we take ; 
And if indeed but pensive men we seem. 
What should we do ? thou wouldst not 

have us wake 
From out the arms of this rare happy 

dream 
And wish to leave the murmur of the 

stream. 
The rustling boughs, the twitter of the 

birds, 
And all tliy thousand peaceful h;i])py 

words. 1868. 



MORRIS 



85s 



AUGUST 

Across the gap made by our English 

hinds, 
Amidst tlie Roman's liandiwork, behold 
Far off the long-roofed church ; the 

shepherd binds 
.he withy round the hurdles of his fold, 
I own in the foss the river fed of old. 
That through long lapse of time has 

grown to be 
The little grassy valley that you see. 

Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is 

still. 
The bees are wandering yet, and you 

may hear 
I he barley mowers on the trenched hill, 
le sheep-bells, and the restless chang- 
ing weir, 
' 1 little sounds made musical and clear 
i nuieath the sky that burning August 

gives, 
V hile yet the thought of glorious Sum- 
mer lives. 

Ah, love! such happy days, such days 

as these. 
Must we still waste them, craving for 

the best. 
Like lovers o'er the painted images 
Of those who once their yearning hearts 

have blessed ? 
Have we been happy on our day of 

i"est ? 
Thine eyes say "yes," — but if it came 

again. 
Perchance its ending would not seem so 

vain. 1868. 

SONG FROM OGIER THE DANE 



In the white-fiowered hawthorn brake, 
Love, be merry for my sake ; 
Twine the blossoms in my hair, 
Kiss me where I am most fair — 
Kiss me, love ! for who knoweth 
What thing cometh after death ? 



Nay, the garlanded gold hair 
Hides thee where thou art most fair ; 
Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow — 
Ah, sweet love, I have thee now ! 
Kiss me. love ! for who knoweth 
What thing cometh after death? 



Shall we weep for a dead day, 

Or set Sorrow in our way ? 

Hidden by my golden hair. 

Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear ? 

Kiss me, love ! for who knoweth 

What thing cometh after death ? 



Weep, O Love, the days that flit. 
Now, while I can feel thy breath ; 

Then may I remember it 

Sad and old, and near my death. 

Kiss me, love ! for who knowetli 

What thing cometh after death? 1868. 

SONG FROM THE STORY OF ACON- 
TIUS AND CYDIPPE 

Fair is the night and fair the day, 
Now April is forgot of j\lay, 
Now into Jime May falls away ; 
Fair day, fair night, Ogive me back 
The tide that all fair things did lack 
Except my love, except my sweet ! 

Blow back, O wind ! thou art not kind. 
Though thou art sweet ; thou hast no 

mind 
Her liair about my sweet to wind ; 

flowery sward, though thou art bright, 

1 ])raise thee not for thy deliglit, 
Tliou hast not kissed her silver feet. 

Thou know'st her not. O rustling tree, 
What dost thou tlien to shadow me, 
Wliose shade lier breast did n'ever see? 
O flowers, in vain ye bow adown ! 
Ye have not felt her odorous gown 
Brush past your heads mj' lips to meet. 

Flow on, great river — thou maA'st deem 
Tliat far away, a summei" stream. 
Thou sawest her limbs amidst tliee gleam 
And kissed her foot, and kissed her knee. 
Yet get thee swift unto the sea ! 
With nought of true thou wilt me greet. 

And thou that men call by my name, 
O lielpless one. liast thou no shame 
Tliat thou must even look the same. 
As while agone, as while agone. 
When thou and she were left alone. 
And hands, and lips, and tears did meet ? 

Grow weak and pine, lie down to die, 

O body in thy misery. 

Because short time and' sweet goes by ; 



856 



BRITISH POETS 



O foolisli lieart. liovv weak tliou art ! 
Break, break, because thou needs must 

part 
From thine own love, from thine own 

sweet ! 1870. 

L'ENVOI 

THK EARTHLY PARADISE 

Here are we for the last time face to 

face, 
Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed 
Upon thy perilous journey to that place 
For which I have done on thee pilgrims 

weed, 
Striving to get thee all things for thy 

need — 
— I love thee, whatso time or men may 

say 
Of the poor singer of an empty day. 

Good reason why I love thee, e'en 

if thou 
Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears 

on ; 
For ever as thy fashioning did grow. 
Kind word and praise because of thee I 

won 
From those without whom were my 

world all gone. 
My hope fallen dead, my singing cast 

away. 
And I set soothly in an empty daj'. 

I love thee ; yet this last time must it be 
That thou must hold thy peace and I 

must speak. 
Lest if thou babble I begin to see 
Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart 

too weak. 
To find the land thou goest forth to 

seek — 
— Though wliat liarni if thou die upon 

the way. 
Tiiou idle singer of an empty day ? 

But though this land desired thou never 

I'each, 
Yet folk who know it mayst tliou meet, 

or deatli ; 
Therefore a word unto thee would I teach 
To answer these, who, noting thy weak 

breath. 
Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little 

faith. 
May make thy fond desire a sport and 

play 
Mocking the singer of an empty day. 



That land's name. sa}'*st thou ? and the 

road thereto ? 
Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou 

know'st it not ; 
Surely no book of verse I ever knew 
But ever was tlie heart within him hot 
To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot — 
— Tliere. now we both laugh — as the 

wliole world may. 
At us poor singers of an empty day. 

Nay, let it pass, and harken ! Hast 

thou heard 
That therein I believe I have a friend. 
Of whom for love I may not be af eared ? 
It is to him indeed I bid thee wend ; 
Yea, he percliance may meet thee ere 

thovi end. 
Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, 
Tliou idle singer of an empty day ! 

Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the 

road , 
And if it hap tliat midst of thy defeat. 
Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, 
My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou 

do meet. 
Then shalt tliou win a space of rest full 

sweet ; 
Then be thou bold, and speak tlie words 

I say. 
The idle singer of an emptj- day ! 

" O Master. O thou great of heart and 

tongue. 
Thou well mayst ask me why I wander 

here, 
In raiment rent of stories oft besung ! 
But of thy gentleness draw thou anear. 
And tlien the heart of one who held thee 

dear 
Mayst thou behold ! So near as ttiat Hay 
Unto the singer of an empty day. 

" For this he ever said, who sent me 

forth 
To seek a place amid thy comjiany ; 
Tliat liowsoever little was mj' wortli. 
Yet was he worth e'en just so much as 

I: 
He said that rhyme hath little skill to 

lie; 
Nor feigned to cast his worser part away; 
In idle singing for an empty day. 

" I have beheld him tremble oft enough 
At things he could not choose but trust 

to me. 
Althougli he knew the world was wise 

and rough ; 



MORRIS 



S57 



And never did he fail to let nie see 
His love, — liis folly and faithlessness, 

maybe : 
And still in turn I gave him voice to pray 
Such prayers as cling about an empty 

day. 

"Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst 

read him tlirough. 
For surely little is there left behind ; 
No power great deeds unnameable to do ; 
No knowledge for which words he may 

not find. 
No love of things as vague as autumn 

wind — 
— Earth of the earth lies hidden by my 

clay. 
The idle singer of an empty day ! 

" Children we twain are, saith he, late 

made wise 
In love, but in all else most childish 

still. 
And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes. 
And wliat our ears with sweetest sounds 

may fill ; 
Not fearing Love, lest these things he 

should kill ; 
Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay. 
Making a strange tale of an empty day. 

"Death have we hated, knowing not 

what it meant ; 
Life have we loved, thi-ough green leaf 

and through sere, 
Though still the less we knew of its in- 
tent ; 
Tlie Eartii and Heaven through countless 

year on year. 
Slow changing, wei*e to us but curtains 

fair. 
Hung round about a little I'ooni, where 

play 
Weeping and laughter of man's empty 

day. 

" O Master, if thine heart could love us 

yet. 
Spite of things left undone, and wrongly 

done. 
Some place in loving hearts then should 

we get. 
For thou, sweet-souled, didst never 

stand alone. 
But knew'st the joy and woe of many an 

one — 
— By lovers dead, who live through thee, 

we pray. 
Help thou us singers of an empty day I "' 



Fearest thou. Book, what answer thou 

mayst gain 
Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof 

thou die ? 
Nay, it shall not be. — Thou mayst toil 

in vain. 
And never draw the House of Fame 

anigh ; 
Yet he and his shall know whereof we 

cry. 
Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay 
The ghosts that crowd about life's 

empty day. 

Then let the others go ! and if indeed 
In some old garden thou and I have 

wrought. 
And made fresh flowers spring up from 

hoarded seed. 
And fragrance of old days and deeds 

have brought 
Back to folk weary ; all was not for 

nought. 
— No little part it was for me to play — 
The idle singer of an empty day. 1870. 

THE SEASONS 

Spring. Spring am I. too soft of heart 
Much to sjieak ere I depart : 
Ask the Summer-tide to prove 
The abundance of my love. 

Siwimer, Summer looked for long am I ; 
Much shall change or e"er I die 
Prithee take it not amiss 
Though I weary thee with bliss. 

Autumn. Laden Autumn here I stand 
Worn of lieart, and weak of hand : 
Nought but rest seems good to uie. 
Speak the word that sets me free. 

Winter. I am Winter, that do keep 
Longing safe amidst of sleep : 
Who shall say if I were dead 
What should be remembered ? 1871. 

ERROR AND LOSS 1 

Upon an eve I sat me down and wept. 
Because the world to me seemed nowise 

good ; 
Still autumn was it, and the meadows 

slept. 
The misty hills dreamed, and tiip silent 

wood [mood : 

Seemed listening to the soriow of my 

' ( >ri.:j:iiially with the title The Durk M'uod. 



858 



BRITISH POETS 



I knew not if tlie earth with nie did 

grieve, 
Or if it mock'd my grief that bitter eve. 

Then ' twixt my tears a maiden did I see, 
AVho drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn 

grass, 
Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully 
With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did 

pass 
From me to her, and tearless now I was. 
And she mid tears was asking me of one 
She long had sought unaided and alone. 

I knew not of him, and s]ie tui-ned away 
Into the dark wood, and my own great 

pain 
Still held me there, till dark had slain 

the day. 
And perislied at the gray dawn's hand 

again ; 
Then from the wood a voice cried : "Ah, 

in vain, 
In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet ! 
In what lone land are set thy longed-for 

feet ? " 

Then I looked up, and lo, a man tliere 

came 
From midst the trees, and stood i-egard- 

ing me 
Until m\' tears were dried for verj^ 

shame ; 
Then he cried out : " O mourner, wliere 

is she 
Whom I have souglit o'er every land and 

sea ? 
I love her and she loveth me, and still 
AVe meet no more than green hill meet- 

eth hill." 

With that he passed on sadly, and I knew 
That these had met and missed ni the 

dark night, 
Blinded by blindness of the world untrue. 
That hideth love and maketli wrong of 

right. 
Tlien midst mj' pity for their lost delight, 
Yet more with barren longing I grew 

weak. 
Yet more I mourned that I liad none to 

seek. 1871. 

THE DAY OF LOVE 

(From LOVE is enough) 

Dawn talks to-day 

Over dew-gleaming flowers, 



Night flies awaj' 

Till the resting of hours : 
Fresh are thy feet 
And with dreams thine eyes glis- 
tening. 
Thy still lips are sweet 

Though tlie world is a-listening. 
O Love, set a word in my mouth for our 

meeting. 
Cast thine arms round about me to stay 
my heart's beating ! 
O fresh day, O fair day, O long day 
made ours ! 

Morn sliall meet noon 

While the flower-stems yet move, 
Though the wind dieth soon 
And the clouds fade above. 
Loved lips are thine 

As I tremble and liarken ; 
Bright thine e5'es shine, 
Though the leaves tliy brow darken. 
O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word 

avail me 
Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath 
and life fail me ! 
O sweet day, O rich day, made long for 
our love ! 

Late day shall greet eve. 

And the full blossoms shake, 
For the wind will not leave 

The tall tiees while they wake. 
Eyes soft witli bliss. 

Come nigher and nigher ! 
Sweet mouth I kiss. 
Tell me all thy desire ! 
Let us speak, love, together some words 

of our story, 
Tluit our lips as they part may remember 
the glory ! 
O soft day, O calm day, made clear for 
our sake ! 

Eve sliall kiss night. 

And the leaves stir like rain 
As the wind stealeth light 

O'er the grass of the plain. 
Unseen are thine eyes 

Mid the dreamy night's sleeping, 
And on my mouth there lies 
The dear rain of thy weeping. 
Hold, silence, love, speak not of the 

sweet day departed, 
Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad 
hearted ! 
O kind day, O dear day, short day, 
come again ! 1873. 



MORRIS 



8S9 



FINAL CHORUS 
(From LOVE is enough) 

Love is enougli : lio ye who seek saving. 

Go no farther ; come hither : tliere 

have been who liave found it, 

And these know the House of Fulfihnent 

of Craving ; 

These know the Cup with the roses 

around it, 
These know the World's Wound and 
the bahn that liatli bound it : 
Cry out, the World heedeth not, " Love, 
lead us home ! " 

He leadeth, He harkeneth, He cometh 
to you- ward : 
Set your faces as steel to the fears that 
assemble 
Round his goad for the faint, and his 
scourge for tlie froward : 
Lo his lips, how witli tales of last kisses 

they tremble ! 
Lo his e^'es of all sorrow that may not 
dissemble ! 
Cry out, for he heedeth, " O Love, lead 
us home ! " 

O harken the words of his voice of com- 
passion : 
" Come cling round about me. ye faith- 
ful wlio siidven 
Of the weary unrest and the world's 
passing fashion ! 
As the rain in mid-morning j-our 

troubles shall thicken, 
But surely witliin you soine Godhead 
doth quicken. 
As ye cry to me heeding, and leading 
you home. 

" Come— pain .ye shall have, and be blind 
to the ending ! 
Conre — -fear ye shall have, mid tlie 
sky's overcasting ! 
Come — change ye shall have, for fur are 
ye wending ! 
Come — no crown ye shall have for j'our 

thirst and j'our fasting, 
But the kissed lips of Love and fair 
life everlasting ! 
Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth 
you home ! " 

Is he gone? was he with us? — lio ye 
wlio seek saving, 
Go no further : come hither ; for have 
we not found it? 



Here is the House of Fulfilment of Crav- 
ing ; 
Here is the Cup with the roses around 

it; 
The World's Wound well healed, and 
the balm that hath bound it : 
Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that 
led home. 1873. 

THE VOICE OF TOIL 

I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and 

praying, 
All days shall be as all have been ; 
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and 

sorrow. 
The never ending toil between. 

When Earth was younger mid toil and 

hunger. 
In hope we strove, and our hands were 

strong ; 
Then great men led us, with words they 

fed us. 
And bade us right the earthly wrong. 

Go read in story their deeds and glory. 
Their names amidst tlie nameless dead ; 
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying 
In that good world to wliich they led ; 

Where fast and faster our iron master, 
The thing we made, for ever drives. 
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleas- 
ure 
For other hopes and other lives. 

Where home is a hovel and dull we 

grovel. 
Forgetting that the world is fair ; 
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very 

soul perish : 
Where mirth is crime, and love a snare. 

Who now shall lead us, what god shall 

heed us 
As we lie in the hell our hands have won ? 
For us are no rulers but fools and be- 

foolers. 
The great are fallen, the wise men gone. 

I heard men saying. Leave tears and 

praying. 
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep ; 
Are we not stronger than the rich and 

the wronger. 
When day breaks over dreams and sleep ? 



86o 



BRITISH POETS 



Come, slioiikler to shoulder, ere the | 

world grows older ! 
Help lies in nought l)ut thee and me : 
Hope is before us, the long years that 

bore us 
Bore leaders more than men may be. 

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and 

marry. 
And trembling nurse their dreams of 

mirth. 
While we the living our lives are giving 
To bring the bright new world to birth. 

Come, shoulder to shoulder, ere earth 

grows older ! 
The cause sprends over land and sea ; 
Now the world shaketh, and fear 

awaketh. 
And joy at last for thee and me. 

1884. 

NO MASTER 

Saith man to man, We've heard and 
known 

Tiiat we no master need 
To live upon tliis earth our own, 

In fair and manly deed. 
The grief of slaves long passed away 

For us hath forged the chain, 
Till now each worker's ))atient day 

Builds up the Hovise of Pain. 

And we, shall we too, crouch and quail, 

Ashamed, afraid of strife. 
And lest our lives untimely fail 

Embrace the Deatli in Life? 
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear, 

We few against the world ; 
Awake, arise ! the hope we bear 

Against the curse is hurled. 

It grows and grows — are we the same. 

The feeble band, the few? 
Or what are these with e.yes aflame. 

And hands to deal and do? 
This is tiie host that bears the word, 

"NO MASTER HIGH OR LOW " — 

A lightning flame, a shearing sword. 
A storm to overthrow. 1884. 

THE DAY IS COMING 

Come hither, lads, andhai'ken. for a tale 

there is to tell, 
Of the wonderful days a-coniing, wjien 

all shall be better than well. 



And the tale shall be told of a country, 
a land in the midst of the sea. 

And folk sliall call it England in the 
days that are going to be. 

There more than one in a thousand in 
tlie days that are j'et to come, 

Shall have some hope of the morrow, 
some joy of the ancient home. 

For then, laugh not, but listen to this 

strange tale of mine. 
All folk that are in England shall be 

better lodged than swine. 

Then a man shall work and bethink him, 
and rejoice in the deeds of his 
hand, 

Nor yet come home in the even too faint 
and weary to stand. 

j\len in that time a-coming shall work 

and have no fear 
For to-morrow's lack of earning and the 

hunger- wolf anear. 

I tell you this for a wonder, that no 

man then shall be glad 
Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch 

at the work he had. 

For that which the worker winneth shall 

then be his indeed, 
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by 

him that sowed no seed. 

O strange new wonderful justice ! But 
for whom shall we gather the gain? 

For ourselves and for eacdt of our fellows, 
and no hand shall labor in vain. 

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, 
and no more shall any man craA-e 

For riches that serve for nothing but to 
fetter a friend for a slave. 

And what wealth then shall be left us 
when none shall gather gold 

To buy his friend in the market, and 
pinch and pine the sold ? 

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the 

little house on the hill. 
And the wastes and the woodland beauty, 

and the happy fields we till ; 

And the homes of ancient stories, tlie 
tombs of the mighty dead : 

And the wise men seeking out marvels, 
and the poet's teeming head ; 



MORRIS 



86i 



And the painter's hand of vvondtn- ; and 
tlie marvelous liddle-bovv, 

And the banded choirs of music : all 
tliose that do and know. 

For all these shall be ours and all men's; 

nor sliall any lack a share 
Of the toil and the gain of living in the 

days when the world grows fair. 

Ah ! such are the days that shall be ! But 
what are tlie deeds of to-day. 

In the days of the years we dwell in, 
that wear our lives away ? 

Why, then, and for what are we wait- 
ing? There are three words to 
speak ; 

We will it. and what is the foeman 
but the dream-strong wakened 
and weak ? 

O why and for what are we waiting ? 

while our brotiiers droop and die. 
And on every wind of the heavens a 

wasted life goes by. 

How long shall they reproach us where 
crowd on crowd tiiey dwell. 

Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold- 
crushed, hungry hell ? 

Through squalid life they labored, in 

sordid grief they died. 
Those sons of a might}' mother, those 

jjrops of England's pride. 

They are gone ; there is none can undo 
it, nor save our souls from the 
curse ; 

But many a million cometh, and shall 
they be better or worse ? 

It is we must answer and hasten, and 

open wide the door 
For the ricii man's hurrying terror, and 

the slow-foot hope of the poor. 

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the 
wretched, and their unlearned dis- 
content. 

We must give it voice and wisdom till 
the waiting-tide be spent. 

Come, then, since all things call us, the 
living and the dead, 

And o'er tlie weltering tangle a glim- 
mering light is shed. 



Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and 

put by ease and rest. 
For the Cause alone is worthy till the 

good days bring the best. 

Come, join in the only battle wherein no 

man can fail. 
Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his 

deed shall still prevail. 

Ah ! come, cast off all fooling, for this, 

at least, we know : 
That the Dawn and the Daj' is coming, 

and foi'th the Banners go. 1885. 

THE DAYS THAT WERE 

(motto of the house of the wolfings) 

Whiles in the early winter eve 
We pass amid the gathering night 
Some homestead that we had to leave 
Years past; and see its candles bright 
Shine in the room beside the door 
Where we were merry years agone. 
But now must never enter more. 
As still the dark road drives us on. 
E'en so the world of men may turn 
At even of some hurried day 
And see the ancient glimmer burn 
Across the waste that hath no way ; 
Then, with tliat faint light in its eyes, 
Awlule I bid it linger near 
And nurse in waving memories 
The bitter sweet of days that were. 

1889. 

THE DAY OF DAYS 

Each eve earth falleth down the dark, 

As though its hope were o'er ; 

Yet lurks the sun when day is done 

Behind to-morrow's door. 

Gray grows the dawn while men-folk 

sleep. 
Unseen spreads on the light, 
Till the thrush sings to the colored 

things. 
And earth forgets the night. 

No otherwise wends on our Hope : 
E'en as a tale that's told 
Are fair lives lost, and all the cost 
Of wise and true and bold. 

We've toiled and failed ; we spake the 

word ; 
None barkened ; dumb we lie ; 
Our Hope is dead, the seed we .spread 
Fell o'er the earth to die. 



862 



BRITISH POETS 



What's tliis ? For joy our hearts stand 

still. 
And life is loved and dear, 
The lost and found the Cause hath 

crowned, 
The Day of Days is here. 1890. 

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE 

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land 

That erst tlie harvest bore ; 

The sword is heavy in the hand, 

And we return no more. 

Tlie light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, 

Our banner of tlie war, 

And ripples in the Running Ox, 

And loe return no more. 

Across our stubble acres now 

The teams go four and four ; 

But out-worn elders guide the plough, 

And loe return no more. 

And now the women heavy-eyed 

Turn through tlie open door 

From gazing down the highway wide. 

Where loe return no more. 

The shadows of the fruited close 

Dapple the feast-hall floor ; 

There lie our dogs and dream and doze, 

And loe return no more. 

Down from the minster tower to-day 

Fall the soft chimes of jore 

Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play : 

And we return no more. 

But underneath the streets are still ; 

Noon, and the market's o'er ! 

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill ; 

For we return no more. 

What merchant to our gates shall come ? 

What wise man bring us lore? 

What abbot ride away to Rome, 

Noio toe return no more f 

Wliat mayor shall rule the hall we built ? 

Whose scarlet sweep the floor ? 

What judge shall doom the robber's 

guilt, 
l<!oio we return no more 9 
New houses in the streets shall rise 
Where builded we before. 
Of other stone wrought otherwise ; 
For we return no more. 
And crops shall cover field and hill 
Unlike what once they bore, 
And all be done without our will, 
Noio ice return no more. 
Look up ! the arrows streak the sky. 
The horns of battle roar ; 
The long spears lower and draw nigh. 
And we return no more. 
Remember how beside the wain. 



We spoke the word of war. 

And sowed this harvest of the plain. 

And loe return no more. 

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox ! 

The days of old are o'er ; 

Heave sword about the Running Ox ! 

For u'e return no more. 1891. 

AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN 

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH 

Agnes went through the meadows a- 

weeping, 
Foivl are a-singing. 
There stood the hill-man heed thereof 

keeping. 
Agnes, fair Agnes ! 

" Come to the hill, fair Agnes, with me, 
The reddest of gold will I give unto 

thee ! " 

Twice went Agnes the hill round about. 
Then wended within, left the fair world 
without. 

In the hillside bode Agnes, three j^ears 

thrice told o'er, 
For the green earth sithence fell she 

longing full sore. 

There she sat, and lullaby sang in her 

singing, 
And she heard how the bells of England 

were ringing. 

Agnes before her true-love did stand : 
"May I wend to the church of the Eng- 
lish Land ? " 

" To England's Church well mayst thou 

be gone, 
So that no hand thou lay the red gold 

upon. 

" So that when thou art come the church- 
yard anear 
Thou cast not abroad thy golden hair. 

" So that when thoustandest thechurth 

within 
To thy mother on bench thou never win. 

" So that when thou hearest the high 

God's name, 
No knee unto earth thou bow to the 

same." 

Hand she laid on all gold that was there, 
And cast abroad her golden hair. 



MORRIS 



863 



And when the cliurcli slu; stood within 
To her niothei" on beiicli striiiglit did she 
win. 

And when she heard tiie hi<i,h God's 

name, 
Knee unto earth she bowed to the same. 

When all the mass was sunj? to its end 
Home witii her mother dear did she 
wend. 

" Come, Agnes, into the hillside to nie. 
For thy seven small sons greet sorely for 
thee 1 " 

" Let tliem greet, let them greet, as 

they will liave to do ; 
For never again will I hearken thereto ! " 

Weird laid he on her, sore sickness lie 

wrought, 
Fowl are a-singing. 
That self -same hour to death was she 

brought. 
Agnes, fair Agnes. 1891. 

ICELAND FIRST SEEN 

Lo from our loitering ship a new land at 

last to be seen ; 
Toothed rocks down the side of the firth 

on the east guard a weary wide lea, 
And black slope the liill-sides above, 

striped adown with tiieir desolate 

green : 
And a peak rises up on the west from 

the meeting of cloud and of sea, 
Foursquare from base unto point like 

the building of Gods tliat have been. 
The last of that waste of the mountains 

all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked 

and gray, 
And bright with the dawn tliat began 

just now at tlie ending of day. 

Ah ! what came we forth for to see that 

our hearts are so hot witli desire ? 
Is it enough for our rest the sight of this 

desolate strand. 
And the mountain-waste voiceless as 

death but for winds that may sleep not 

nor tire V 

Why do we long to wend forth through 
the length and breadth of a land, 

Dreadful with grinding of ice, and 
record of scarce hidden fire, 



But that there 'mi<l the gray grassy dales 
sore scarred by tiie ruining streams 

Lives the tale of the Northland of old 
and the undying glory of dreams ? 

land, as some cave by the sea where 
the treasures of old have been laid, 

TJie sword it may be of a king whose 

name was tlie turning of figlit ; 
Or the staff of some wise of the world 

that many things made and unmade. 
Or the ring of a woman maybe whose 

woe is grown wealtli and delight. 
No wheat and no wine grows above it, 

no orcliard for blossom and shade ; 
The few ships that sail by its blackness 

but deem it the mouth of a grave ; 
Yet sure wiien tlie world shall awaken, 

this too shall be mighty to save. 

Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth 

that men ever sought 
Thy wastes for a field and a garden ful- 
filled of all wonder and doubt. 
And feasted amidst of the winter when 

the fight of the year had been fouglit. 
Whose plunder all gathered together 

was little to babble about : 
Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou 

land, " Not for this nor for that was I 

wrcHight 
Amid waning of realms and of riches 

and deatii of tilings worshipped and 

sure, 

1 abide here the spouse of a God, and I 
made and I make and endure." 

O Queen of the grief without know- 
ledge, of the courage that may not 
avail, 

Of the longing tliat may not attain, of 
the love that shall never forget. 

More joy than the gladness of laughter 
thy voice hath amidst of its wail : 

More hope than of pleasure fulfilled 
amidst of thy blindness is set ; 

More glorious than gaining of all, thine 
unfaltering hand that shall fail : 

For what is the mark on thy brow but 
the brand that thy Brynhild doth 
bear ? 

Lone once, and loved and undone by a 
love that no ages outwear. 

Ah ! when tliy Balder comes back, and 
bears from the heart of the Sun, 

Peace and the healing of pain, and the 
wisdom that waiteth no more ; 

And the lilies are laid on thy brow 



864 



BRITISH POETS 



'mid the crown of the deeds thou 
hast done ; 

And tlie I'oses spring up bj' thy feet that 
tlie rocks of the wilderness wore. 

Ah ! when thy Balder conies back and 
we gatlier the gains he hatii won, 

Shall we not linger a little to talk of thy 
sweetness of old, 

Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail 
whence the gods stood aloof to be- 
hold ? 1891. 

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH 

O MUSE that swayest the sad Northern 

Song, 
Thy right hand full of smiting and of 

wrong, 
Thy left hand holding pity ; and thy 

breast 
Heaving with hope of that so certain 

rest : 
Thou, with the gray eyes kind and un- 
afraid. 
The soft lips trembling not, though they 

have said 
The doom of the World and those that 

dwell therein. 
Tiie- lips that smile not though thy 

children win 
The fated Love that draws the fated 

Death. 
O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy 

breath, 
Let some word reach my ears and touch 

my heart, . 
That, if it may be, I may have a part 



In that great sorrow of thy children 

dead 
That vexed the brow, and bowed adown 

the head. 
Whitened the hair, made life a won- 
drous dream. 
And death the murmur of a restful 

stream, 
But left no stain vipon those son Is of 

thine 
Whose greatness through the tangled 

world doth shine. 
O Mother, and Love and Sister ail in 

one. 
Come thou ; for sure I am enough alone 
That thou thine arms about ni}- lieart 

shouldst throw. 
And wrap me in the grief of long ago. 

1891. 

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood. 
In haste and hurry to be there. 
Nought seem its leaves and blossoms 

good, 
For all that they be fashioned fair. 

But looking up, at last we see 
The glimmer of the open light. 
From o'er the place where we would be; 
Then grow the very brambles bright. 

So now, amidst our day of strife, 
With many a matter glad we ]>l;iv. 
When once we see the light of life 
Gleam through the tangle of to-dav. 

1891. 



SWINBURNE 

LIST OF REFERENCES 

Editioxs 

The first * collected edition of Swinburne, in 12 volumes, is now being 
published (1904), and is issued in America by Harper & Bros. The best 
editions of single works are published by Chatto & Windus, London. There 
are many cheap American reprints of the poems, none of them complete. 

Biography 

See the International Encyclopaedia, etc.; Wratislaw (T.), Algernon 
Charles Swinburne, a Study, 1900 (English Writers of To-day) ; and the 
biographical references under Rossetti and Morris. 

Criticism 

Adams (Francis), Essays in Modernity : The Poetry and Criticism oi 
Mr. Swinburne. Austin (A.), Poetry of the Period. Buchanan (R.), The 
Fleslily School of Poetry, 1871. Courtney (W. L.), Studies New and 
Old. FoRMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * Gossk (E.) in The Century 
Magazine, Vol. XLII, p. 101, May, 1902. Hallaru (J. H.), Gallica and 
other Essays. Lowkll (J. R). My Study Windows : Swinburne's Tra- 
gedies. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Patmore 
(C), Principle in Art. Payne (W. M.), in Warner's Library of the 
World's Best Literature. Rossetti (W. M.), Swinburne''s Poems and 
Ballads: A Criticism, 1866. Saintsbury (G.), Corrected Impressions. 
Sharp (W.), In Pall Mall Magazine, Vol. XXV, p. 25, December, 1901. 
* Stiedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. Swinburne, Notes on Poems and 
Reviews (a reply to the early criticisms of Poems and Ballads, ^firat series), 
1866. Swinburne, Under the Microscope (a reply to Buchanan), 1872. 
WoLLAEGER, Studieu iiber Swinburne's poetischen Stil. Wratislaw 
(T.), Algernon Charles Swinburne (English Writers of To-day). 

Cheney (J. V.), Golden Guess. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern 
English. Franke (W.), Algernon Charles Swinburne als Dramatiker. 
Friswell (J. H.), Modern Men of Letters honestly Criticized. Sarrazix 
(G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angleterre. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the 
Spirit. 

Bibliography 

NicoLL (W. R.) and Wise (T. J.), in Literary Anecdotes of the Nine- 
teenth Century. * Shepherd (R. H.), The Bibliography of Swinburne, 
1887. 

55 ^^5 



c 









^ -^ b ^-X 



J 



^ -^ ° 



\ 



SWINBURNE 



^. 



A 



A SONG IN TIME 



OF OEDER 



Push hard across the sand, 

For the salt wind gathers breath ; 
Shoulder and wrist and hand, 

Push hard as the push of death. 

Tlie wind is as iron that rings, 

Tlie foam-heads loosen and flee ; 

It swells and welters and swings, 
The pulse of the tide of the sea. 

And up on the j^ellow cliff 

The long corn flickers and shakes ; 
Push, for the wind holds stiff. 

And the gunwale dips and rakes. 

Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, 
The quiver and beat of the sea ! 

Wliile three men hold together 

The kingdoms are less by three. 

Out to the sea with her there, 

Out with her over the sand, 
Let the kings keep the earth for their 
share ! 
We have done with the sharers of 
land. 

They have tied the world in a tether, 
They have bought over God with a 
fee ; 

While tliree men hold together, 

The kingdoms are less by three. 

We have done with the kisses that sting. 
The thief's mouth red from the feast. 

The blood on the hands of the king. 

And the lie at the lips of the priest. 

Will they tie the winds in a tether. 
Put a bit in the jaws of the sea ? 

While three men hold together, 

The kingdoms are less by three. 

Let our flag run out straight in the wind ! 
The old red shall be floated again 



When the ranks that are thin shall be 
thinned, 
When the names that were twenty 
are ten ; 

When the devil's riddle is mastered 

And tiie galley-bench creaks with a 
Pope, 

We shall see Buonaparte the bastard 
Kick heels with his throat in a rope. 

While the shepherd sets wolves on his 
sheep 

And the emperor halters his Kine, 
While Shame is a watchman asleep 

And Faith is a keeper of swine. 

Let the wind shake our flag like a 
feather. 
Like the plumes of the foam of the 
sea ! 
While three men hold together. 

The kingdoms are less by three. 

All the world has its burdens to bear. 
From Cayenne to the Austrian 
whips ; 

Forth, with the rain in our hair 

And the salt sweet foam in our Ups : 

In the teeth of the hard glad weather. 
In the blown wet face of the sea ; 

While three men hold together. 

The kingdoms are less by three. 

1862. 

CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN 
CALYDON 

THE YOUTH OP THE YEAR 

When the hounds of spring are on 
winter's traces. 
The niother of months in meadow or 
plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 



866 



SWINBURNE 



867 



And the brow u bright nightingale amor- 
ous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian sliips and the foreign 
faces, 
The tougueless vigil, and all tiie pain. 

Come with bows bent and with eniptjing 
of quivers, 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
Witii a noise of winds and many rivers, 
With a clamor of waters, and witli 
might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan 
west shivers. 
Round the feet of the day and the feet 
of the night. 

Where shall we find her, how sliall we 
sing to her. 
Fold our hands round her knees, and 
cling? 
O that man's heart were as fire and could 
spring to her, 
Fire, or the strength of the streams 
that spring ! 
For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling 
to lier, 
And the southwest-wind and the west- 
wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins ; 
The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night tliat 
wins ; 
And time remembei'ed is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
And in green underw^ood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
Ripe grasses trammel a ti'a veiling foot, 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 
And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut 
root. 

And Fan by noon and Bacchus by niglit, 
Fleeter of foot than tlie fleet-foot kid. 
Follows with dancing and fills with de- 
light 



*rhe Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
And .soft as lips that laugh and hide 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in 
sight 

The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 

Over her e3^ebrows hiding her eyes ; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves 
bare 
Her bright breast shoi'tening into 
sighs ; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of 

its leaves. 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 
scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that 
flies. 

THE LIFE OF MAN 

Before the beginning of years. 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, witii flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance fallen from heaven. 

And madness risen from hell ; 
Strength without hands to smite ; 

Love that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light. 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears. 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of tiie laboring earth ; 
And bodies of tilings to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter 

And fashioned with loathing and love. 
With life before and after 

And death beneath and above, 
For a day and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a 
span 
With travail and heavy sorrow. 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the 
south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his moutli. 

They filled his body with life ; 



S68 



BRITISH POETS 



E^'esight and speech they wrought 

For tlie veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave liini light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight. 
And beauty and length of days. 

And niglit, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travailetli ; 
In ids heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

LOVE AND love's MATES 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art 

fair ; thou art goodly, O Love ; 
Thy wings make light in the air as the 

wings of a dove. 
Thy feet are as winds that divide the 

stream of the sea ; 
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the 

garment of thee. 
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a 

flame of fire ; 
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the 

tears of desire ; 
And twain go fortli beside thee, a man 

with a maid ; 
Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom 

delight makes afraid ; 
As the breatli in the buds tliat stir is lier 

bridal breath : 
But Fate is the name of her ; and his 

name is Death. 

NATURE 

O that I now, I too were 
By deep wells and water-floods, 
Streams of ancient hills, and where 
All the wan green places bear 
Blossoms cleaving to the sod, 
Fruitless fruit, and grasses fair, 
Or such darkest ivy-buds 
As divide thy yellow hair, 
Bacchus, and their leaves that nod 
Round thy fawnskin brush the bare 
Snow-soft siioulders of a god ; 
There the year is sweet, and tliere 
Earth is full of secret springs, 
And the fervent rose-cheeked hours. 
Those that marry dawn and noon. 
There are sunless, there look pale 
In dim leaves and hidden air, 



Pale as grass or latter flowers. 

Or the wild vine's wan wet rings 

Full of dew beneath the moon, 

And all day the nightingale 

Sleeps, and all night sings ; 

There in cold remote recesses 

That nor alien eyes assail, 

Feet, nor imminence of wings, 

Nor a wind nor any tune. 

Thou, O queen and holiest, 

Flower the whitest of all things. 

With reluctant lengthening tresses 

And with sudden splendid breast 

Save of maidens unbeholden, 

There art wont to enter, there 

Thy divine swift limbs and golden 

Maiden growth of unbound hair. 

Bathed in waters white, 

Shine, and many a maid's by thee 

In moist woodland or the hilly 

Flowerless brakes where wells abound 

Out of all men's sight ; 

Or in lower pools tliat see 

All their marges clothed all round 

With the innumerable lily. 

Whence the golden-girdled bee 

Flits through flowering rusii to fret 

White or duskier violet, 

Fair as those that in far years 

With their buds left luminous 

And their little leaves made wet 

From the warmer dew of tears. 

Mother's tears in extreme need. 

Hid the limbs of lamus. 

Of thy brother's seed ; 

For his heart was piteous 

Toward him, even as thine lieart now 

Pitiful toward us ; 

Thine, O goddess, tui'ning hither 

A benignant blameless brow ; 

Seeing enough of evil done 

And lives withered as leaves wither 

In the blasting of the sun ; 

Seeing enough of lumters dead. 

Ruin enough of all our year. 

Herds and harvest slain and shed. 

Herdsmen stricken many an one, 

Fruits and flocks consumed together. 

And great length of deadly days. 

Yet with reverent lips and fear 

Turn we toward thee, turn and praise 

For this lightening of clear weather 

And prosperities begun. 

For not seldom, when all air 

As bright water without breath 

Shines, and when men fear not, fate 

Without thunder unaware 

Breaks, and brings down death. 

Joy with grief ye great gods give, 



SWINBURNE 



869 



Good with bad, and overbear 
All the pride of us that live, 
All tlie high estate, 
As ye long since overbore, 
As in old time long before. 
Many a strong man and a great, 
All that were. 

But do thou, sweet, otherwise. 
Having heed of all our prayer. 
Taking note of all our siglis ; 
Webeseecli thee by thy light, 
By thy bow, and thy sweet eyes, 
And the kingdom of tlie night. 
Be thou favorable and fair ; 
By thine arrows and thy might 
And Orion overthrown ; 
By tlie maiden thy delight, 
By the indissoluble zone 
And the sacred hair. 



Not as with sundering of the earth 

Nor as with cleaving of the sea 
Nor fierce foreshadovvings of a birth 

Nor flying dreams of death to be. 
Nor loosening of a large world's girth 
And quickening of the body of night, 

And sound of thunder in men's ears 
And fire of lightning in men's sight. 

Fate, mother of desires and feavs, 

Boi'e unto men tlie law of tears ; 
But sudden, an unfathered fiame. 

And broken out of night, she shone, 
She, without body, without name. 

In days forgotten and foregone ; 
And heaven rang round her as she came 
Like smitten cymbals, and lay bare ; 

Clouds and great stars, thunders and 
snows. 

The blue sad fields and folds of air. 
The life that breathes, the life that 
grows, 

All wind, all fire, that burns or blows. 
Even all these knew her : for she is great; 

The daughter of doom, the mother of 
death, 
The sister of sorrow ; a lifelong weight 

That no man's finger ligliteneth. 
Nor any god can lighten fate ; 
A landmark seen across the way 

Where one race treads as tlie other 
trod ; 
An evil sceptre, an evil stay. 

Wrought for a staff*, wrought for a rod. 

The bitter jealousy of God. 

For death is deep as the sea, 
And fate as the waves thereof. 



Shall the waves take i)ity on tliee 

Or the south-wind offer thee love? 
Wilt thou take the night for thy day 
Or the darkness for light on thy way 
Till thou say in thine heart, Enough? 

Behold, thou art over fair, thou art 

over wise : 
The sweetness of spring in thine hair, 

and the light in thine eyes. 
The light of the spring in thine eyes, 

and the sound in thine ears ; 
Yet thine heart shall wax heavy with 

sighs and thine eyelids with tears. 
Wilt thou cover thine hair with gold ; 

and with silver thy feet? 
Hast thou taken the purple to fold thee, 

and made thy mouth sweet ? 
Behold, when thy face is made bare, he 

that loved thee sliall hate ; 
Thy face shall be no more fair at the 

fall of thy fate. 
For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be 

shed as tlie rain ; 
And the veil of thine head shall be grief ; 

and the crown shall be pain. 

THE DEATH OF MELEAGER 

Meleager. Let your hands meet 
Round the weight of my head. 
Lift ye mj^ feet 

As the feet of the dead ; 
For the flesh of my body is molten, the 
limbs of it molten as lead. 

Chorus. O thy luminous face, 
Thine imperious eyes ! 
O the grief, O the grace. 
As of day when it dies ! 
Who is this bending over thee, lord, with 
tears and suppression of sighs ! 

Meleager. Is a bride so fair? 
Is a maid so meek? 
With unchapleted hair. 
With unfilleted cheek. 
Atalanta, the pure among women, whose 
name is as blessing to speak. 

Atalanta. I would that with feet, 
Unsandalled, unshod, 
Overbold, overfleet, 

I had swum not nor ti'od 
From Arcadia to Calydon. northward, a 
blast of the envy of God. 

3Iclea.ger. Unto each man his fate ; 
Unto each as he saith 



870 



BRITISH POETS 



In whose fingers the weight 
Of the world is as breath ; 
Yet I would that in clamor of battle 
mine hands had laid hold upon 
death. 

Chorus. Not with cleaving of shields 
And tlieir clash in thine ear, 
When the lord of fought fields 
Breaketh spearshaft from spear, 
Thou art broken, our lord, thou art 
broken, witii travail and labor 
and fear. 

Meleager. Would God he liad found me 
Beneath fresh boughs ! 
"Would God he liad bound me 
Unawares in mine house. 
With light in mine eyes and songs in my 
lips, and a crown on my brows ! 

Chorus. Whence art thou sent froni us ? 
Whither thy goal ? 
How art thou rent from us. 
Thou that wert whole. 
As with severing of eyelids and ej'es, as 
with sundering of body and soul ! 

Meleager. My heart is within me 
As an ash in the fire ; 
Whosoever hath seen me. 
Without lute, without lyre. 
Shall sing of me grievous things, even 
things that were ill to desire. 

Chorus. Wlio shall raise thee 
From the house of tlie dead ? 
Or what man praise thee 

That thy praise may be said ? 
Alas thy beauty ! alas thy body ! alas 
thine head ! 

.Meleager. But thou. O mother, 
That dreamer of dreams. 
Wilt tliou bring forth another 
To feel the sun's beams 
When I move among shadows a shadow, 
and wail by impassable streams ? 

CEneus. What thing wilt thou leave me 
Now this thing is done ? 
A man wilt thou give me, 
A son for my son. 
For the light of mine eyes, the desire of 
my life, the desirable one ? 

Chorus. Thou w-ert glad above others. 
Yea, fair beyond word ; 
Thou wert glad among mothers ; 



For each man that heard 
Of tliee, praise there was added unto thee, 
as wings to the feet of a bird. 

CEneus. Who shall give back 

Thy face of old years, 

With travail made black, 

Grown gi'ay among fears. 

Mother of sorrow, mother of cursing, 

mother of tears ? 

Meleager. Though thou art as fire 
Fed with fuel in vain. 
My deliglit, mj^ desire. 

Is more chaste than the rain. 
More inire than the dew fall, more holy 
than stars are that live without 
stain. 

Atalanta. I would that as water 
My life's blood had thawn, 
Or as winter's wan daughter 
Leaves lowland and lawn 
Spring-stricken, or ever mine eyes had 
beheld thee made dark in tliy 
dawn. 

Chorus. When thou dravest the men 
Of the chosen of Thrace, 
None turned him again 
Nor endured he thy face 
Clothed round with the blush of tlie 
battle, with light from a terrible 
place. 

CEneus. Thou shouldst die as he dies 
For whom none sheddeth tears ; 
Filling thine ej'es 

And fulfilling thine ears. 
With the brilliance of battle, the bloom 
and the beauty, the splendor of 
spears. 

Chorus. In the ears of the world 
It is sung, it is told. 
And the light thereof hurled 
And the noise thereof rolled 
From the Acroceraunian snow to the 
ford of the fleece of gold. 

Meleager. Would God ye could carry me 
Forth of all these ; 
Heap sand and bury me 
By the Chersonese, 
Where the tlumdering Bosphorus an- 
swers the thunder of Pontic seas, 

CEneus. Dost thou mock at our praise 
And the singing begun 



SWINBURNE 



871 



And the men of strange days 
Praising my son 
In the folds of the hills of home, high 
places of Calydon ? 

Meleager. For the dead man no home is ; 
Ah, better to be 
What the flower of tlie foam is 
In fields of the sea, 
That the sea-waves might be as my rai- 
ment, the gulf-stream a garment 
for me. 

Chorus. Who shall seek thee and bring 
And restore thee thy day, 
When the dove dipped her wing. 
And the oars won their way 
Where the narrowing Symplegades 
whitened the straits of Propontis 
with spray ? 

Meleager. Will ye crown me my tomb 
Or exalt me my name. 
Now my spirits consume. 
Now my flesh is a flame ? 
Let the sea slake it once, and men speak 
of me sleeping to praise me or 
shame. 

Chorus. Turn back now, turn thee, 
As who turns him to wake ; 
Though the life in thee burn thee, 
Couldst thou bathe it and slake 
Where the sea-ridge of Helle hangs 
heavier, and east upon west waters 
break ? 

Meleager. Would the winds blow me 
back 
Or the waves hurl me home ? 
Ah. to touch in the track 

Where the pine learnt to roam 
Cold girdles and crowns of the sea-gods, 
cool blossoms of water and foam ! 

Chorus. The gods may release 
That they made fast ; 
Tliy soul shall have ease 
In thy limbs at the last ; 
But what shall they give tliee for life, 
sweet life that is overpast ? 

Meleager. Not the life of men's veins. 
Not of flesh that conceives ; 
But the grace that remains. 
The fair beauty that cleaves 
To the life of the rains in the grasses, the 
life of the dews on the leaves. 



Chorus. Thou wert helmsman and chief ; 
Wilt thou turn in an hour, 
Thy limbs to the leaf, 
Thy face to the flower, 
Thy blood to the water, thy soul to the 
gods who divide and devour? 

Meleager. The years are hungry, 
They wail all their days ; 
The gods wax angry 
And weary of praise ; 
And who shall biidle their lips? and 
who shall straighten their ways ? 

Chorus. The gods guard over us 
With sword and with rod ; 
Weaving shadow to cover us. 
Heaping the sod, 
Tliat law may fulfil herself wholly, to 
darken man's face before God. 

FINAL CHORUS 

Who shall contend with his lords 
Or cross them or do them wrong ? 

Who shall bind them as with cords ? 
Who shall tame them as with song ? 

Who shall smite tliem as with swords ? 
For the hands of their kingdom are 
strong. 1865. 

SONGS FROM CHASTELARD 

MARY BEATON'S SONG ^ 

Le navire 
Est a I'eau ; 
Entends rire 
Ce gros flot 
Que fait luire 
Et bruire 
Le vieux sire 
Aquilo. 

Dans I'espace 
Du grand air 
Le vent passe 
Comme un fer ; 
Siffle et Sonne, 
Tombe et tonne ; 
Prend et donne 
A la mer. 



1 Probably no excuse is needed for including 
here some examples of Swinburne's French verse, 
both for its own liglit and exquisite beauty, and 
because it so cliaracteristically represents him. 
One of his chief distinctions is that of being pei'- 
haps the only Englishman who ever really un- 
derstood and appreciated French poetry. 



872 



BRITISH POETS 



Vols, la brise 
Tourne au iiord, 
Et la bise 
Souffle et moid 
Sur ta pure 
Chevelure 
Qui inurmure 
Et se tord. 

Le navire 
Passe et luit, 
Puis chavire 
A grand bruit ; 
Et sur Tonde 
La plus blonde 
Tete au monde 
Flotte et fuit. 

Moi, je rame, 
Et I'amour, 
C'est ma flanime, 
Mon grand jour, 
Ma chandelle 
Blanche et belle, 
Ma chapelle 
De sejour. 

Toi, mon anie 
Et ma foi, 
Sois ma dame 
Et ma loi ; , 
Sois ma mie, 
Sois Marie, 
Sois ma vie,. 
Toute a moi ! 

LOVE AT EBB 

Between the sunset and the sea 
My love laid hands and lips on me ; 
Of sweet caine sour, of day came night. 
Of long desire cdme brief deliglit : 
Ah love, and what thing came of thee 
Between the sea-downs and the sea? 

Between the sea-mark and the sea 
Juy grew to grief, grief grew to me ; 
Love turned to tears, and tears to fire. 
And dead delight to new desire ; 
Love's talk, love's touch there seemed to 

be 
Between the sea-sand and the sea. 

Between the sundown and the sea 
Love watched one hour of love with me ; 
Then down the all-golden water-ways 
His feet flew after yesterday's ; 
I saw tliem como and saw them flee 
Between the sea-foam and the sea. 



Between the sea-strand and the sea 
Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me ; 
The first star saw twain turn to one 
Between the moonrise and the sun ; 
The next, that saw not love, saw me 
Between the sea-banks and the sea. 

THE queen's song 

J'ai vu faner bien des choses, 
Mainte feuille aller au vent. 
En songeant aux vieilles roses, 
J'ai pleure souvent. 

Vois tu dans les roses mortes 
Amour qui sourit cache ? 

mon amant, a nos portes 
L'as-tu vu co.uche ? 

As-tu vu jamais au monde 
Venus chasser etcourir? 
Fille de I'onde, avec I'onde 
Doit-elle mourir ? 

Aux jours de neige et de givre 
L'amour s'effeuille et s'endort ; 
Avec mai doit-il revivre, 
Ou bien est-il mort ? 

Qui salt ou s'en vont les roses ? 
Qui salt ou s'en va le vent ? 
En songeant a telles choses, 
J'ai pleure souvent. 1865. 

HYMN TO PROSERPINE 

(after the proclamation in ROME OF 
THE CHRISTIAN FAITH) 

Vicisti, Galilcee 

1 HAVE lived long enough, having seen 

one thing, that love hath an end ; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near 

me now and befriend. 
Thou art more than the day or the mor- 
row, the seasons that laugh or that 

weep ; 
For these give joy and sorrow ; but thou, 

Proserpina, sleep. 
Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet 

the feet of the dove ; 
But a goodlier gift is thine than foam 

of the grapes or love. 
Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and 

harpstring of gold, 
A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God 

to behold ? 
I am sick of singing : the bays burn deep 

and chafe : I am fain 



SWINBURNE 



S73 



To rest a little from praise aud grievous 

pleasure and pain. 
For the Gods we know not of, who give 

us our daily breath, 
We know they are cruel as love or life, 

and lovely asdeatli. 

Gods dethroned and deceased, cast 

forth, wiped out in a day ! 
From your wrath is the world released, 

redeemed from your chains, men 

say. 
New Gods are crowned in the city, their 

flowers have broken your rods ; 
They are merciful, clothed with pity, 

the young compassionate Gods. 
But for me tlieir new device is barren, 

the day s are bare ; 
Things long past over suffice, and men 

forgotten that were. 
Time and the Gods are at strife : ye 

dwell in the midst thereof. 
Draining a little life from the bai'ren 

breasts of love. 

1 say to you. cease, take rest ; yea, I say 

to you all, be at peace. 
Till the bitter milk of her breast and the 

barren bosom shall cease. 
Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but 

these thou shalt not take. 
The laurel, tlie palms and the pjean, 

the breast of the nymphs in the 

brake ; 
Breasts more soft than a dove's, that 

ti'emble with tenderer breath ; 
And all the wings of the Loves, and all 

the joy before death ; 
All the feet of the hours that sound as 

a single lyre, 
Di'opped and deep in the flowers, with 

strings that flicker like fire. 
More than these wilt thou give, things 

fairer than all these things ? 
Nay, for a little we live, and life hath 

mutable wings. 
A little while and we die ; shall life not 

thrive as it may ? 
For no man under the sky lives twice, 

outliving his day. 
And grief is a grievous thing, and a man 

hath enough of his tears : 
Why should he labor, and bring fi'esh 

grief to blacken his years ? 
Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; 

the world has grown gray from 

thy breath : 
We have drunken of things Lethean, 

and fed on the fulness of death. 
Laurel is green for a season, and love is 

sweet for a day ; 



But love grows bitter with treason, and 

laurel outlives not May. 
Sleep, shall we sleep after all ? for the 

world is not sweet in the end ; 
For the old faiths loosen and fall, the 

new years ruin and rend. 
Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul 

is a rock that abides ; 
But her ears are vexed witli the roar and 

her face with the foam of the tides. 
O lips that the live blood laiiits in. the 

leavings of racks and rods ! 

ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of 

gibl)eted Gods ! 
Thougii all men abase them before you 
in s[)irit, and all knees bend, 

1 kneel not, neither adore you, but 

standing, look to the end. 
All delicate daj^s and pleasant, all spirits 

and sorrows are cast 
Far out with the foam of the present that 

sweeps to the surf of the past : 
Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and 

between the remote sea-gates. 
Waste water washes, and tall ships 

founder, and deej) death waits : 
Where, mighty with deepening sides, 

clad about with the seas as with 

wings; 
And impelled of invisible tides, and ful- 
filled of imspeakable things. 
White-eyed and poisonous-finned, sliark- 

toothed and serpentine-curled. 
Rolls, under the whitening wind of the 

future, tlie wave of tlie world. 
The depths stand naked in sunder behind 

it, the storms flee awaj" ; 
In the hollow before it the thunder is 

taken and snared as a prey ; 
In its sides is tlie north-vi'ind bound ; and 

its salt is of all men's tears ; 
With liglit of ruin, and sound of changes, 

and pulse of years : 
With travail of day after day. and with 

trouble of hour upon hour ; 
And bitter as blood is the spray ; and the 

crests ai'e as fangs that devour : 
Aud its vapor and storm of its steam as 

the sighing of spirits to be ; 
And its noise as the noise in a dream : 

and its depth as the roots of tlie sea : 
And the height of its heads as the height 

of the utmost stars of the air : 
And the ends of the earth at the might 

thereof tremble, and time is made 

bare. 
Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, 

will ye chasten the high sea with 

rods ? 



874 



BRITISH POETS 



Will ye take her to chain her with chains, 

who is older than all ye Gods ? 
All ye as a wind shall go bj^ as a fire 

shall ye pass and be past : 
Ye are Gods, and behold ye shall die, and 

the waves be upon you at last. 
In the darkness of time, in the deeps of 

the years, in the changes of things, 
Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and 

the world shall forget you for 

kings. 
Though the feet of thine high priests 

tread where thy lords and our 

forefathers trod. 
Though tliese that were Gods are dead, 

and thou being dead art a God. 
Though before thee the throned Cythe- 

rean be fallen, and hidden her 

head. 
Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy 

dead shall go down to thee dead. 
Of the maiden tliy mother, men sing as a 

goddess with grace clad around ; 
Thou art throned wliere another was 

king ; where another was queen 

she is crowned. 
Yea, once we had sight of another : but 

now she is queen, saj^ these. 
Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, 

a blossom of flowering seas, 
Clothed round with the world's desire as 

with raiment, and fair as the foam. 
And fleeter than kindled fire, and a god- 
dess and mother of Rome. 
For thine came pale and a maiden, and 

sister to sorrow ; but ours. 
Her deep hair heavily laden with odor 

and color of flowers, 
White rose of the rose-white water, a 

silver splendor, a flame. 
Bent down unto us that besought her, 

and earth grew sweet with her 

name. 
For thine came weeping, a slave among 

slaves, and rejected ; but slie 
Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, 

and imperial, her foot on tlie sea. 
And the wonderful waters knew her, the 

winds and the viewless ways, 
And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the 

sea-blue stream of the bays. 
Ye are fallen, our lords by what token ? 

we wist that ye should not fall. 
Ye were all so fair tliat are broken ; and 

one more fair than ye all. 
But I turn to her still, having seen she 

shall surely abide in the end ; 
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near 

me now and befriend. 



daughter of earth, of my mother, her 

crown and blossom of birth, 

1 am also. I also, thy brother ; I go as I 

came unto earth. 
In the niglit where thine eyes are as 

moons are in heaven, the night 

where thou art. 
Where the silence is more than all tunes, 

where sleep overflows from the 

heart. 
Where the poppies are sweet as the rose 

in our world, and the red rose is 

white, 
And the wind falls faint as it blows with 

tlie fume of the flowers of the 

night. 
And the murmur of spirits that sleep in 

the shadow of Gods from afar 
Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the 

deep dim soul of a star. 
In the sweet low light of thy face, un- 
der heavens untrod by tlie sun. 
Let my soul witli their souls find place, 

and forget what is done and un- 
done. 
Thou art more than the Gods who 

number the days of our temporal 

breath ; 
For these give labor and slumber ; but 

thou, Proserpina, death. 
Tlierefore now at thj^ feet I abide for a 

season in silence. I know 
I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep 

as they sleep ; even so. 
For the glass of the year is brittle 

wherein we gaze for a span ; 
A little soul for a little bears up this 

corpse which is man.i 
So long I endure, no longer ; and laugh 

not again, neither weep. 
For there is no God found stronger than 

death ; and death is a sleep. 1866. 

A MATCH 

If love were what tlie rose is, 
And I were like the leaf, 

Our lives would grow together 

In sad or singing weather. 

Blown fields or flowerful closes. 
Green pleasure or gray grief ; 

If love were what the rose is, 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 
And love were like the tune. 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 

1 ilivxdpLOv et ^atTTa^ov vtKp'ov. EPICTETUS. 



SWINBURNE 



875 



With kisses glad as birds are 
That get sweet rain at noon ; 

If I were what the words are 
And love were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling, 

And I your love were death, 
We'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 
If j^ou were life, my darling, 
And I your love were death. 

If 3'ou were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy, 
We"d plaj^ for lives and seasons 
With loving looks and treasons 
And tears of night and morrow 

And laughs of maid and boy ; 
If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy. 

If you were April's lady, 

And I were lord in May, 
We'd throw with leaves for hovirs 
And draw for days with flowers. 
Till day like night were shady 

And night were bright like day ; 
If you were April's lady, 

And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain. 
We'd hunt down love together. 
Pluck out his flying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure. 

And find liis mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I wei'e king of pain. 1866. 

A BALLAD OF BURDENS 

The burden of fair women. Vain delight, 

And love self-slain in some sweet 

shameful way. 

And sorrowful old age that comes by 

niglit 

As a thief comes tliat lias no heart by 

day, 
And change that finds fair cheeks and 
leaves them gray. 
And weariness tliat keeps awake for hire. 
And grief that says what pleasure used 
to say ; 
This is the end of every man's desire. 



The burden of bought kisses, 
sor^, 



This is 



A burden without fruit in child- 
bearing ; 
Between tlie nightfall and the dawn 
threescore. 
Threescore between the dawn and 

evening. 
The shuddering in thy lips, the shud- 
dering 
In thy sad eyelids tremiUous like fire. 
Makes love seem shameful and a 
wretched thing. 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, 

kneel down. 

Cover thy head, and weeji ; for verily 

These market-men that buy thy white 

and brown 

In the last days shall take no thouglit 

for tliee. 
In the last days like earth thy face 
shall be. 
Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with 
brine and mire. 
Sad with sick leavings of the sterile 
sea. 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of long living. Thou shalt 
fear 
Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy 
bed; 
And say at night, " Would God the day 
were here," 
And say at dawn " Would God tlie day 

were dead." 
With weary days thou shalt be clothed 
and fed. 
And wear remorse of heart for thine 
attire, 
Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon 
thine head ; 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of bright colors. Tliou slialt 
see 
Gold tarnished, and the gray above tlie 
green ; 
And as the thing thou seest tJiy face 
shall be, 
And 710 more as the thing beforetime 

seen. 
And tliou shalt say of mercy " It hath 
been," 
And living, watch the old lips and loves 
expire. 
And talking, tears shall take thy 
breath between. 
This is the end of every man's desire. 



876 



BRITISH POETS 



The burden of sad sayings. In that day 
Thou Shalt tell all tliy days and hours, 
and tell 
Thy times and ways and words of love, 
and say 
How one was dear and one desirable, 
And sweet was life to hear and sweet 
to smell, 
But now with lights reverse the old hours 
retire 
And the last hour is shod with fire from 
hell. 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of four seasons. Rain in 
spring, 
White rain and wind among tlie tender 
trees ; 
A summer of green sorrows gathering. 
Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, 
With sad face set towards the year, 
that sees 
Tiie cliarred ash drop out of the dropping 
pyre. 
And winter wan witli manjMnaladies ; 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of dead faces. Out of sight 

And out of love, beyond the reach of 

hands, 

Changed in the changing of the dark and 

light. 

They walk and weep about the barren 

lands 
Where no seed is nor any garner stands. 
Where in short breaths the doubtful days 
respire, 
And time's turned glass lets through 

the sighing sands ; 
Til is is the end of every man's desire. 

The burden of much gladness. Life and 

lust [light ; 

Forsake thee, and the face of tiiy de- 

And underfoot tlie heavy hour strews 

dust ; 

And overhead strange weathers burn 

and bite : 
And where the red was, lo, the blood- 
less wliite. 
And where truth was, the likeness of a 
liar. 
And where day was, the likeness of 
the night ; 
This is the end of every man's desire. 



Princes, and ye whom pleasure quick- 
eneth , 



Heed well this rhyme before your 
pleasure tire ; 
For life is sweet, but after life is death. 
This is the end of every man's desire. 

1866. 

RONDEL 

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet. 
Wove and unwove it, wound and found 

it sweet 
Made fast therewith her hands, drew 

down her eyes. 
Deep as deej) flowers and dreamy like 

dim skies ; 
With her own tresses bound and found 

her fair. 
Kissing her hair. 

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to 

me. 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under tiie cold 

sea ; 
What pain could get between my face 

and hers? 
AVhat new sweet thing would love not 

lelish worse ? 
Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed 

me there, 
Kissing her hair ? 1866. 

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE 
LANDOR. 

Back to the flower-town, side b}' side, 

Tiie bright months bring. 
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride. 

Freedom and spring. 

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea. 

Filled full of sun ; 
All things come back to her, being 
free, — 

All things but one. 

In many a tender wheaten plot 

Flowers that were dead 
Live, and old suns revive ; but not 

That holier head. 

By this white wandering waste of sea, 

Far north, I hear 
One face shall never turn to me 

As once this year ; 

Shall never smile and turn and rest 

On mine as there. 
Nor one most sacred hand be pressed 

Upon my hair. 



SWlNBUkNE 



877 



I came as one whose thoughts half lin- 
ger, 

Half run before ; 
The yoj.ingest to the oldest singer 

That England bore. 

I found him whom I shall not find 

Till all grief end. 
In lioliest age our inightiest mind, 

Father and friend. 

But thou, if anything endure, 

If hope there be, 
O spirit tliat man's life left pure, 

Man's death set free, 

Not witli disdain of days that were 

Look earthward now : 
Let dreams revive the reverend hair. 

The imperial brow ; 

Come back in sleep, for in the life 

W liere thou art not 
We find none like thee. Time and 
strife 

And the world's lot 

Move thee no more ; but love at least, 

And reverent heart. 
May move thee, royal and released 

Soul, as thou art. 

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 

Receive and keep, 
Kee|) safe his dedicated dust. 

His sacred sleep. 

So shall thy lovers, come from far, 

Mix with thy name 
As morning-star with evening-star 

His faultless fame. 1866. 

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 

Here, where the world is quiet. 
Here, where all trouble seems 
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 

In doubtful dreams of dreams ; 
I watch the green field growing 
For reaping folk and sowing, 
For liar vest time and mowing, 
A sleepy world of streams. 

I am tired of tears and laughter. 
And men tliat laugli and weep 
Of what may come hereafter 
For men tliat sow to reap : 
I am weary of days and hours, 
Blown buds of barren flowei's. 
Desires and dreams and powers 
And everything but sleep. 



Here life lias deatli for neighbor, 

And far from ej'eor ear 
Wan waves and wet winds labor, 

Weak shii^s and spirits steer ; 
They drive adrift, and whither 
They wot not who make thither ; 
But no such winds blow hither, 

And no such things grow here. 

No growth of moor or coppice, 

No heatlier-flovver or vine, 
But blooniless buds of poppies, 

Green grapes of Proserpine, 
Pale beds of blowing rushes 
W^here no leaf blooms or blushes. 
Save this whereout she crushes 

For dead men deadly wine. 

Pale, without name or number, 

In fruitless fields of corn. 
They bow themselves and slumber 

AH niglit till light is born ; 
And like a soul belated. 
In hell and heaven unmated, 
By cloud and mist abated 

Comes out of darkness morn. 

Thougli one were strong as seven, 
He too with death shall dwell. 

Nor wake with wings in heaven. 
Nor weep for pains in hell ; 

Though one were fair as roses, 

His beauty clovids and closes ; 

And well though love reposes, 
In the end it is not well. 

Pale, beyond porch and portal, 
Crowned with calm leaves, she 

stands 
Who gathers all things mortal 

With cold immortal hands ; 
Her languid lips are sweeter 
Than love's who fears to greet her 
To men that mix and meet her 

From many times and lands. 

She waits for each and other, 
Slie waits for all men born ; 
Forgets the earth her motlier, 
The life of fruits and corn ; 
And spring and seed and swallow 
Take wing for her and follow 
AVhere summer song rings hollow 
And flowers ai"e put to scorn. 

There go the loves that wither. 
The old loves with wearier wings ; 

And all dead years draw tliitlier, 
And all disastrous tilings ; 

Dead dreams of days forsaken 



878 



BRITISH POETS 



Blind buds that snows have shaken, 
Wild leaves that winds liave taken, 
Red strays of ruined springs. 

We are not sure of sorrow. 

And jo}-^ was never sure ; 
To-day will die to-morrow 

Time stoops to no man's lure ; 
And love, grown faint and fretful 
With lips but half regretful 
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 

Weeps that no loves endure. 

From too much love of living, 
From hope and fear set free, 

We thank with brief thanksgiving 
Whatever gods may be 

Tiiat no life lives for ever ; 

That dead men rise up never ; 

That even the weariest river 
Winds somewhere safe to sea. 

Tlien star nor sun shall waken, 

Nor any change of light : 
Nor sound of waters shaken. 

Nor any sound or sight : 
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal. 
Nor days nor tilings diurnal ; 
Only the sleep eternal 

In an eternal night. 1866. 

LOVE AT SEA 

We are in love's land to-day ; 

Where shall we go ? 
Love, shall we start or staj', 

Or sail or row ? 
There's many a wind and way, 
And never a May but May ; 
We are in love's hand to-day ; 

Where shall we go ? 

Our landwind is the breath 
Of sorrows kissed to death 

And joys that were : 
Our ballast is a rose ; 
Our way lies where God knows 

And love knows where. 

We are in love's hand to-day- 

Our seamen are fledged Loves, 
Our masts are bills of doves, 

Our decks fine gold ; 
Our ropes are dead maids' hair, 
Our stores are love-shafts fair 

And manifold. 

We are in love's land to-day- 

Where shall we land you, sweet? 
On fields of strange men's feet, 



Or fields near home ? 
Or where the fire-flowers blow, 
Or where the flowers of snow 

Or flowei's of foam ? . 

We are in love's hand to-day — 

Land me, she says, where love 
Shows but one shaft, one dove, 

One heart, one hand. 
— A shore like that, my dear, 
Lies where no man will steer, 
No maiden land. 

Imitated from Theophile Gautier. 
1866. 

SAPPHICS 

All the night sleep came not upon my 

eyelids. 
Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a 

feather. 
Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of 

iron 
Stood and beheld me. 

Then to me so lying awake a vision 
Came without sleep over the seas and 

touched me. 
Softly touched mine eyelids and lips ; 

and I too. 
Full of the vision. 

Saw the white implacable Aphrodite. 
Sa%v the hair unbound, and tlie feet un- 

sandalled 
Shine as fire of sunset on western waters ; 
Saw the reluctant 

Feet, the straining plumes of the doves 
that drew her. 

Looking always, looking with necks re- 
verted, 

Back to Lesbos, back to the hills where- 
under 
Shone Mitylene ; 

Heard the flying feet of the Loves be- 
hind her 
Make a sudden thunder upon the waters. 
As the thunder flung from the strong 
unclosing 
Wings of a great wind. 

So the goddess fled from her place, with 

awful 
Sound of feet and thunder of wings 

around her ; 
While behind a clamor of singing women 
Severed the twilight. 



SWINBURNE 



879 



Ah the singing, ah the deliglit, the pas- 
sion ! 

All the Loves wept, listening ; sick with 
anguish, 

Stood the crowned nine Muses about 
Apollo ; 
Fear was upon them, 

While the tenth sang wonderful things 

they knew not. 
Ah, the tenth, the Lesbian ! the nine 

were silent, 
None endured the sound of her song for 

weeping ; 
Laurel by laurel, 

Faded all their crowns ; but about her 

forehead, 
Round her woven tresses and ashen 

temples 
White as dead snow, paler than grass in 

summer. 
Ravaged with kisses, 

Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. 
Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite 
Paused, and almost wept ; such a song 
was that song ; 
Yea, by her name too 

Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my 
Sappho ; " 

Yet she turned her face from tlie Loves, 
she saw not 

Tears or laughter darken immortal eye- 
lids. 
Heard not about her 

Fearful fitful wings of the doves depart- 
ing, 
Saw not liow the bosom of Aphrodite 
Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken 
raiment, 
Saw not her liands wrung ; 

Saw the Lesbians kissing across their 

smitten 
Lutes with lips more sweet than tlie 

sound of lute-strings. 
Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, 

her chosen. 
Fairer than all men ; 

Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers. 
Full of songs and kisses and little whis- 
pers. 
Full of music ; only beheld among tliem 
Soar, as a bird soars 



Newly fledged, her visible song, a mar- 
vel. 

Made of perfect sound and exceeding 
passion. 

Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thun- 
ders. 
Clothed with the wind's wings. 

Then rejoiced she, laughing witli love, 

and scattered 
Roses, awful roses of Iioly blossom ; 
Then the Loves thronged sadly with 

hidden faces 
Round Aphrodite, 

Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were 

silent ; 
Yea, the gods waxed pale ; such a song 

was that song. 
All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion. 
Fled from before her. 

All withdrew long since, and the land 
was barren. 

Full of fruitless women and music only. 

Now perchance, when winds are as- 
suaged at sunset, 
Lulled at the dewfall. 

By the gray sea-side, unassuaged, un- 
heard of, 

Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twi- 
light. 

Ghosts of outcast women return lament- 
ing. 
Purged not in Lethe, 

Clotlied about with flame and with tears, 

and singing 
Songs that move the heart of the shaken 

heaven. 
Songs that break the heart of the earth 

with pity. 
Hearing, to hear them. 1866, 

DEDICATION 

[Poems and Ballads, First Series] 

The sea gives her shells to the sliingle, 

The eartli gives her streams to tlie sea ; 
There are many, but my gift is single. 

My verses, the first-fruits of me. 
Let the wind take the green and the gray 
leaf 

Cast forth without fruit upon air ; 
Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay- 
leaf 

Blown loose from the hair. 



BRITISH POETS 



The night shakes them round me in 
legions, 
Dawn drives them before her like 
dreams ; 
Time sheds them like snows on strange 
regions, 
Swept shoreward on infinite streams ; 
Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddj'. 

Dead fruits of tlie fugitive years ; 
Some stained as witli wine and made 
bloody. 
And some as with tears. 

Some scattered in seven years' traces, 

As tliey fell from the boy that was 
then ; 
Long left among idle green places. 

Or gatliered but now among men ; 
Oil seas full of wonder and jjeril, 

Blown white round the capes of tlie 
north ; 
Or in islands where myrtles are sterile 

And loves bring not forth. 

O daughters of dreams and of stories 

Tliat life is not wearied of yet, 
Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores. 

Feiise and Yolande and Juliette, 
Shall I find you not still, shall I miss 
you. 

When sleep, that is true or that seems, 
Comes bacdv to me hopeless to kiss you, 

O daughters of dreams ? 

Thej are past as a slumber that passes. 

As the dew of a dawn of old time ; 
More frail than the shadows on glasses, 

More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. 
As tlie waves after ebb drawing sea- 
ward, 
Wiien their hollows are full of the 
night. 
So the birds that flew singing to me- 
ward 
Recede out of sight. 

The songs of dead seasons, that wander 

On wings of articulate words ; 
Lost leaves that tlie shore-wind may 
squander, 

Light flocks of untameable birds ; 
Some sang to me dreaming in class time 

And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
For the youngest were born of boy's pas- 
time. 

The eldest are young. 

Is there shelter while life in them 
lingers. 
Is there hearing for songs that recede, 



Tunes touclied from a harp with men's 
fingers, 
Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? 
Is there place in the land of yovir labor, 
Is there room in your world of de- 
light. 
Where change has not sorrow for neigh- 
bor 
And day has not night ? 

In their wings though the sea-wind 
yet quivers. 

Will you spare not a space for them 
tliere 
Made green with the running of rivers 

And gracious with temperate air ; 
In the fields and the turreted cities 

That cover from sunshine and rain 
Fair passions and bountiful pities 

And loves without stain ? 

In a land of clear colors and stories, 

In a region of shadowless hours, 
Where eartli has a garment of glories 

And a murmur of musical flowers ; 
In woods where the spring half un- 
covers 

The flusli of her amorous face. 
By the %vaters tliat listen for lovers, 

For these is there place ? 

For the song-birds of sorrow, that 
muftie 
Tiieir music as clouds do their fii-e : 
For the storm-birds of passion, that 
ruffle 
Wild wings in a wind of desire ; 
In the stream of the storm as it settles 
Blown seaward, borne far from the 
sun, 
Shaken loose on the darkness like petals 
Dropped one after one ? 

Though the world of your hands be more 
gracious 
And lovelier in lordship of things 
Clothed round by sweet art with the 
spacious 
Warm heaven of her imminent wings, 
Let them enter, unfledged and nigh 
fainting. 
For the love of old loves and lost 
times ; 
And receive in your palace of painting 
This revel of rhymes. 

Though the seasons of man full of losses 
Make empty tiie years full of youth, 

If but one tiling be constant in crosses. 
Change lays not her hand upon truth; 



SWINBURNE 



88 1 



Hopes die, and their tombs are for token 
Tliat the grief as tlie joy of them ends 

Ere time tluit breaks all men has broken 
The faith between friends. 

Though the many lights dwindle to one 
light, 
There is help if the heaven has one ; 
Though the skies be discrowned of the 
sunlight 
And the earth dispossessed of the sun. 
They have moonlight and sleep for re- 
payment. 
When, refreshed as a bride and set 
free, 
With stars and sea-winds in her raiment, 
Night sinks on the sea. 1866. 

AX APPEAL 

Art thou indeed among these, 
Thou of the tyrannous crew, 
The kingdoms fed upon blood, 
O queen from of old of the seas, 
England, art thou of them too 
Tliat drink of the poisonous flood. 
That hide under poisonous trees? 

Nay, thy name from of old. 
Mother, was pure, or we dreamed ; 
Purer we held thee than this, 
Purer fain would we hold ; 
So goodly a glory it seemed, 
A fame so bounteous of bliss, 
So more precious than gold. 

A praise so sweet in our ears, 

That thou in the tempest of things 

As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand, 

In the blood-red river of tears 

Poured foi-th for the triumph of kings ; 

A safeguard, a sheltering land, 

In the thunder and torrent of years. 

Strangers came gladly to thee, 

Exiles, chosen of men. 

Safe for thy sake in thy shade, 

Sat down at th}^ feet and were free. 

So men spake of thee then ; 

Now shall their speaking be stayed ? 

Ah, so let it not be ! 

Not for revenge or affright, 

Pride, or a tyrannous lust. 

Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. 

Jlercy was thine in thy miglit ; 

Strong when thou wert, thou wert just : 

Now, in the wrong-doing daj^s, 

Cleave thou, thou at least, to the I'ight. 



56 



How should one charge thee, how 

sway, 
Save by the memories that were ? 
Not thy gold nor the strength of thy 

ships, 
Nor the might of thine armies at bay, 
Made tliee, mother, most fair ; 
But a word from republican lips 
Said in thy name in thy day. 

Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot ? 
Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff? 
Blood of men guiltless was shed. 
Children, and souls without spot, 
Shed, but in places far off ; 
Let slaughter no more be, said 
Milton ; and slaughter was not. 

Was it not said of thee too. 

Now, but now, by thy foes, 

By the slaves that had slain their France 

And thee would slay as they slew — 

" Down with her walls that enclose 

Freemen that eye us askance. 

Fugitives, men that are true ! " 

This was thy praise or thy blame 
From bondsman or freeman — to be 
Pure from pollution of slaves, 
Clean of their sins, and thy name 
Bloodless, innocent, free ; 
Now if thou be not, thy waves 
Wash not from off thee thy shame. 

Freeman he is not, but slave, 
Whoso in fear for the State 
Cries for surety of blood. 
Help of gibbet and grave ; 
Neither is any land great 
Whom, in her fear-stricken mood. 
These things only can save. 

Lo ! how fair from afar, 
Taintless of tj-ramiy* stands 
Thy mighty daughter, for years 
Who trod the winepress of war, — 
Shines with immaculate hands; 
Slays not a foe, neither fears ; 
Stains not peace with a scar. 

Be not as tyrant or slave, 
England ; be not as these, 
Tiiou tliat wert other than they. 
Stretch out thine hand, but to save ; 
Put forth thy sti'ength, and release : 
Lest there arise, if thou slay. 
Thy shame as a ghost from the grave. 
November, 1867. 



882 



BRITISH POETS 



HERTHA 

I AM that which begnii ; 

Out of me the years roll ; 
Out of me God and man ; 
I am equal and Wliole ; 
God changes, and man, and the form of 
them bodily ; I am the soul. 

Before ever land was, 
Before ever the sea, 
Or soft liair of the grass, 
Or fair limbs of the tree, 
Or the fiesli-colored fruit of my brandies, 
I was, and thy soul was in me. 

First life on my sources 

First drifted and swam ; 
Out of me are the forces 
That save it or damn ; 
Out of me man and woman, and wild- 
beast and bird ; before God was, I 
am. 

Beside or above me 

Nought is there to go ; 
Love or unlove me, 
Unknow me or know, 
I am that whicli unloves me and loves ; 
I am stricken, and I am the blow. 

I the mark that is missed 

And the arrows that miss, 
I the mouth that is kissed 
And the breath in the kiss, 
The search, and the sought, and the 
seeker, the soul and the body that is. 

I am that thing which blesses 

My spirit elate : 
That which caresses 
With hands uncreate 
My limbs unbegotten that measure the 
lengtli of the measure of fate. 

But what thirtg dost thou now, 

Looking Godward, to cry 
" I am I, thou art thou, 
I am low, thou art high ? " 
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find 
him ; find thou but thyself, tliou 
art I. 

I the grain and the furrow. 

The plough-cloven clod 
And the ploughshai-e drawn 
thorough. 
The eerm and the sod, 
The deed and the doer, the seed and the 
sower, the dust wliich is God. 



Hast thou known how I fashioned 
thee, 
Child, underground ? 
Fire that impassioned thee, 
Iron that bound. 
Dim changes of water, what thing of all 
these hast thou known of or found ? 

Canst thou say in thine heart 

Thou has seen with thine eyes 
With what cunning of art 

Thou wast wrougVit in what 
wise. 
By what force of what stuff thou wast 
shapen, and shown on my breast to 
the skies ? 

Who hath given, who hath sold it 
thee. 
Knowledge of me ? 
Hath the wilderness told it thee ? 
Hast thou learnt of the sea? 
Hast thou communed in spirit with 
niglit ? have the winds taken coun- 
sel with thee ? 

Have I set such a star 

To show light on thy brow 
That tliou sawest from afar 
What I show to thee now ? 
Have ye spoken as brethren together, 
the sun and the mountains and thou ? 

What is here, dost thou know it ? 

What was, hast thou known V 
Pi'ophet nor poet 

Nor tripod nor tlirone 
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, 
but only thy mother alone. 

Mother not maker, 

Born, and not made ; 
Though her children forsake her, 
Allured or afraid. 
Praying prayers to the God of their 
fashion, she stirs not for all that 
liave prayed. 

A creed is a rod. 

And a crown is of niglit ; 
But this thing is God, 
To be man with thy might. 
To grow straight in the strength of thy 
spirit, and live out thy life as the 
light. 

I am in thee to save thee, 
As my soul in thee saith, 

Give thou as I gave thee. 
Thy life-blood and breath, 



SWINBURNE 



8Ss 



(Jreeii leaves of tliy labor, wliite flowers 
of tliy thought, and red fruit of thy 
death. 

Be tlie waj's of thy giving 

As mine were to thee ; 
The free life of thy living, 
Be the gift of it free ; 
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to 
slave, slialt thou give thee to me. 

children of banishment, 
Souls overcast. 

Were the lights ye see vanish 
meant 
Alway to last, 
Ye would know not the sun overshining 
the shadows and stars overpast. 

1 that saw where ye trod 
The dim paths of the night 

Set tlie shadow called God 
In your skies to give light ; 
But the morning of manhood is risen, and 
the shadowless soul is in sight. 

The tree many-rooted 

That swells to the sky 
With frondage red-fruited. 
The life-tree am I ; 
In the buds of j-our lives is the sap of my 
leaves : ye shall live and not die. 

But tlie Gods of your fashion 

That take and tliat give. 
In their pity and passion 
That scourge and forgive, 
They are worms that are bred in the 
bark that falls off : they shall die 
and not live. 

My own blood is what stanches 

The wounds in my bark : 
Stars caught in my branches 
Make day of the dark. 
And are worshipped as suns till the sun- 
rise shall tread out their fires as a 
spark. 

Where dead ages hide under 

The live roots of the tree, 

In my darkness the thunder 

M;ikes utterance of me ; 

In the clash of my boughs with each 

other ye hear the waves sound of 

the sea. 

That noise is of Time, 

As his feathers are spread 
And his feet set to cliznb 



Through the boughs (overhead, 
And my foliage rings round him and 
rustles, and branches are bent with 
his tread. 

The storm-winds of ages 

Blow through me and cease, 
The war-wind tluit rages, 
The spring-wind of peace. 
Ere the breath of them roughen my 
tresses, ere one of my blossoms in- 
crease. 

All sounds of all changes. 
All shadows and ligiits 
On the world's mountain -ranges 
And stream-riven heights, 
Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and 
language of storm-clouds on earth- 
shaking nights ; 

All forms of all faces. 

All works of all hands 
In unsearchable places 
Of time-stricken lands, 
All death and all life, and all reigns and 
all ruins, drop through me as sands. 

Though sore be my burden 
And more than ye know. 
And my growth have no guerdon 
But only to grow. 
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings 
above me or death worms below. 

These too have their part in me. 

As I too in these ; 
Such fii-e is at heart in me, 
Such sap is this tree's. 
Which hath in it all sounds and all 
secrets of infinite lands and of seas. 

In the spring-colored hours 

When my mind was as May's, 
There brake forth of me flowers 
By centuries of days, 
Strong blossoms with perfume of man- 
hood, shot out from my spirit as rays. 

And the sound of them springing 

And smell of their shoots 
Were as warmth and sweet singing 
A nd strength to my roots ; 
And the lives of my children made per- 
fect with freedom of soul were my 
fruits. 

I Ijid you but be ; 

I have need not of prayer ; 
I have need of you free 



884 



BRITISH POETS 



As your mouths of miue air ; 
That mj^ heart may be greater within 
me, beholding the fruits of me fair. 

More fair than strange fruit is 

Of faitli ye espouse ; 
In me only tlie root is 

That blooms in your boughs ; 
Behold now your God that ye made yau, 
to feed liim with faith of your vows. 

In the darkening and whiterting 

Abysses ador"d, 
With dayspring and lightning 
For lamp and for sword, 
God thunders in heaven, and his angels 
are red with the wrath of the Lord. 

O my sons, O too dutiful 

Toward Gods not of me. 

I Was not I enough beautiful ? 

Was it hard to be free ? 

For behold, I am wnth you, am in j^ou 

and of you ; look forth now and see. 

Lo, wing'd with world's wonders. 

With miracles shod. 
With the fires of liis tliunders 
For raiment and rod, 
God trembles in heaven, and his angels 
are white with the terror of God. 

For his twilight is come on him. 

His anguish is here ; 
And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 
Grown gray from his fear ; 
And his hour taketh hold on him 
stricken, the last of his infinite year. 

Thought made him and breaks 
liim. 
Truth slays and forgives ; 
But to you, as time takes him, 
Tliis new thing it gives, 
Even love, the beloved Republic, that 
feeds upon freedom and lives. 

For truth only is living, 

Truth only is whole, 
And the love of his giving 
Man's polestar and pole ; 
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of 
my body, and seed of my soul. 

One birth of my bosom ; 

One beam of mine eye ; 
One topmost blossom 
That scales tlie sky ; 
Man, equiil and one with me, man that 
is made of me, man tliat is I. 1871. 



THE PILCiRlMS 

" Who is your lady of love, O ye that 

pass 
Singing? and is it for sorrow of that 
which was 
Tliat ve .sing sadlv, or dream of wliat 
■shall be ? 
For gladly at once and sadly it seems 
ye sing."' 
— "Our lady of love by you is uiibe- 

holden 
For hands slie hath none, nor eyes, nor 
lips, nor golden 
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form ; 
But we 
That love, we know her more fair 
than any thing.'" 

— " Is she a queen, having great gifts to 

give ? " 
— "Yea, these: that whoso hatli seen 
her shall not live 
Except lie serve her sorrowing, with 
strange pain. 
Travail and bloodshedding and bit- 
terer tears ; 
And when she bids die he shall surely 

die. 
And he sliall leave all tilings under tiie 
sky. 
And go forth naked under siui and 
rain, 
And work and wait and watch out 
all his years." 

— " Hath slie on earth no place of habi- 
tation ? " 
— " Age to age calling, nation answer- 
ing nation. 
Cries out. Where is she ? and there is 
none to say ; 
For if she be not in the spirit of men. 
For if ill tlie inward soul she hath no 

place. 
In vain they cry unto her, seeking her 
face. 
In vain tlieir mouths make much of 
her : for they 
Cry with vain tongues, till the heart 
lives again." 

— "O ye tliat follow, and have ye no 

repentance ? 
For on your brows is- written a mortal 
sentence. 
An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign, 
That in your lives ye shall not pause 
or rest. 



SWINBURNE 



885 



Nor have the sure sweet common love, 

nor keep 
Friends and safe days, nor joy of life 
nor sleep."' 
— " These liave we not, who have one 
thing, the divine 
Face and clear eyes of faith and 
fruitful breast." 

— " And ye shall die before your thrones 

be woU" 
— " Yea, and the changed Avorld and tlie 
liberal sun 
Shall move and shine without us, and 
we lie 
Dead ; but if she too move on eartli, 
and live. 
But if the old world with all the old 

irons rent 
Laugh and give thanks, shall we be not 
content ? 
Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not 
die, 
Life being so little, and death so 
good to give." 

— " And these men shall forget J^ou." — 

" Yea. but we 
Shall be a part of the earth and the an- 
cient sea. 
And heaven-high air august, and aw- 
ful fire, 
And all things good ; and no man's 
heart shall beat 
But somewhat in it of our blood once 

shed 
Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us 
the dead 
Blood of men slain and the old same 
life's desire 
Plants in their fiery footprints our 
fresh feet." 

— " But ye that might be clothed with 

all tilings pleasant. 
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft 
present, 
That clothe j^ourselves with the cold 
future air : 
When mother and father and ten- 
der sister and brother 
And the old live love that was shall be 

as ye. 
Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall 
be." 
— " She shall be yet who is more than 
all these were. 
Than sister or wife or father unto us 
or mother." 



— '• Is this worth life, is this, to win for 

wages ? 
Lo, the dead moutlis of the awful gray- 
grown ages. 
The venerable, in the past that is their 
prison. 
In the outer darkness, in the un- 
opening grave. 
Laugh, knowing how many as ye now 

say have said, 
How many, and all are fallen, are fallen 
and dead : 
Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have 
not risen ? " 
— '• Not we but she, who is tender, 
and swift to save." 

— "Are ye not;, weary and faint not by 

the way', 
Seeing night by night devoured of day 
by day, 
Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleep- 
le-;s fire ? 
Sleepless ; and ye too, when shall ye 
loo sleep?" 
— " We are weary in heart and head, in 

1 lands and feet. 
And surely more than all things sleep 
were sweet, — 
Than all things save the inexorable 
desire 
Which wlioso knoweth shall neither 
faint nor weep." 

— " Is this so sweet that one were fain 

to follow ? 
Is this so sure where all men's hopes are 
hollow, 
Even this your dream, that by much 
tribulation 
Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, 
and bowed necks straight?" 
— " Nay, though our life were blind, our 

death were fruitless, 
Not therefore were the whole world's 
high liope rootless ; 
But man to man, nation would turn to 
nation , 
And the old life live, and the old 
great word be great." 

— " Pass on, then, and pass by us, and 

let us be. 
For what light think ye after life to 
see ? 
And if the world fare better will ye 
know ? 
And if man triumpli who shall seek 
you and say ? " 



886 



BRITISH POETS 



— " Enough of light is this for one life's 

span. 
That all men born are mortal, but not 
man ; 
And we men bring death lives by 
night to sow, 
That men may reap and eat and 
live by day." 1871. 

TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 

Send but a song oversea for us. 
Heart of their hearts who are free, 

Heart of tlieir singer, to be for us 
More than our singing can be ; 

Ours, in the tempest at error. 

With no light but tlie twilight of terror ; 
Send us a song oversea ! 

Sweet-smelling of pine leaves and 
grasses, 
And blown as a tree through and 
through 
With tlie winds of the keen mountain- 
passes, 
And tender as sun-smitten dew ; 
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes 
The wastes of your limitless lakes, 
Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue. 

O strong-winged soul with prophetic 
Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, 

AVith tremor of lieartstrings magnetic. 
With thoughts as thimders in throng. 

With consonant ardors of chords 

That pierce men's souls as witii swords 
And hale them hearing along. 

Make us, too. music, to be with us 

As a word from a world's heart warm. 

To sail tlie dark as a sea with us, 
Full-sailed, outsingiiig the storm, 

A song to put fire in our ears 

Whose burning sliall burn up tears, 
Whose sign bid battle reform ; 

A note in the ranks of a clarioji, 
A word in tlie wind of cheer. 

To consume as with lightning the carrion 
That makes time foul for us here ; 

In the air that our dead things infest 

A blast of the breath of the west, 
Till east way as west way is clear. 

Out of the sun beyond sunset, 

From the evening wlience morning 
sliall be, 
AVith the rollers in measureless onset, 

With the van of the storming sea, 



AVith the world-wide wind, with the 

breath 
That breaks ships driven upon death, 
With the passion of all things free, 

With the sea-steeds footless and frantic, 
White myriads for death to bestride 

In the charge of the ruining Atlantic 
Where deaths by regiments ride, 

With clouds and clamors of waters, 

AVith a long note shriller th« slaughter's 
On the furrowless fields world-wide, 

AVith terror, witli ardor and wonder, 
With the soul of the season that wakes 

AVhen the weight of a whole year's 
thunder 
In the tidestream of autumn breaks. 

Let the flight of the wide- winged word 

Come over, come in and be heard. 
Take form and fire for our sakes. 

For a continent bloodless with travail 
Here toils and brawls as it can, 

And the web of it who shall unravel 
Of all that peer on the plan ; 

Would fain grow men, but they grow- 
not. 

And fain be free, but they know not 
One name for freedom and man ? 

One name, not twain for division ; 

One thing, not twain, from the birth ; 
Spirit and substunce and vision, 

W'orth more than worslii}} is worth ; 
Unbeheld, unadored, undivined. 
The cause, the centre, the mind. 

The secret and sense of the earth. 

Here as a weakling in irons. 

Here as a weanling in bands 
As a prey tliat the stake-net environs, 

Our life that we looked for stands ; 
And the man-child naked and dear, 
Democrac;y. turns on us here 

Eyes trembling, with tremulous hands. 

It sees not what season shall bring to it 
Sweet fruit of its bitter desire ; 

Few voices it hears yet sing to it, 
Few pulses of hearts reasjiire : 

Foresees not time, nor forebears 

The noises of imminent years. 
Earthquake, and thunder, and fire : 

AVhen crowned and weaponed and curb- 
less 
It shall walk without helm or shield 
The bare burnt furrows and herbless 



SWINBURNE 



887 



Of war's last flame-stricken field, 
Till godlike, equal with time. 
It stand in the sun sublime, • 

In the godhead of man revealed. 

Round your people and over them 
Light like raiment is drawn. 

Close as a garment to cover them 
Wrought not of mail nor of lawn : 

Here, with hope hardly to wear, 

Naked nations' and bare 
Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn. 

Chains ai'e here, and a prison. 
Kings, and siibjects, and sliame : 

If the God upon j^ou be arisen. 
How should our songs be the same ? 

How in confusion of change. 

How shall we sing, in a strange 
Land songs praising his name ? 

God is buried and dead to us. 

Even the spirit of earth. 
Freedom : so have they said to us. 

Some with mocking and mii'th. 
Some with heartbreak and tears : 
And a God without ej'es, without ears. 

Who shall sing of him, dead in the 
birth? 

The earth-god Freedom, the lonely 
Face lightening, the footprint unshod. 

Not as one man crucified only 

Nor scourged with but one life's rod : 

The soul that is substance of nations, 

Reincarnate with fresh generations ; 
The great god Man, which is God. 

But in weariest of years and obscurest 
Doth it live not at heart of all things 

The one God and one spii'it, a purest 
Life, fed from unstanchable springs V 

Within love, within hatred it is. 

And its seed in the stripe as the kiss. 
And in slaves is the germ, and in 
kings. 

Freedom we call it, for holier 
Name of the soul's there is none ; 

Surelier it labors, if slowlier, 
Than the metres of star or of sun ; 

Slowlier than life unto breath, 

Surelier than time unto death, 
It moves till its labor be done. 

Till the motion be done and the measure 
Circling through season and clime, 

Slumber and sorrow and pleasure. 
Vision of virtue and crime ; 

Till consummate with conquering eyes. 



A soul disembodied, it rise 
From the body transfigured of time. 

Till it rise and remain and take station 
With the stars of the world that re- 
joice ; 

Till the voice of its heart's exultation 
Be as theirs an invariable voice, 

By no discord of evil estranged. 

By no pause, by no breach in it changed. 
By no clash in the chord of its choice. 

It is one with the world's generations, 

With the spirit, the star, and the sod : 

With the kingless and king-stricken 

nations. 

With the cross, and the chain, and 

the rod ; 

Tlie most high, the most secret, most 

lonely, 
Tlie earth-soul Freedom, that only 
Lives, and that only is God. 1871. 

FROM MATER TRIUMPHALIS 

[to liberty] 

I am thine harp between thine hands, 
O mother ! 
All my strong chords are strained 
with love of thee. 
We grapple in love and wrestle, as each 
with other 
Wrestle the wind and the unreluctant 
sea. 

I am no courtier of thee sober-suited. 

Who loves a little for a little pay. 
Me not thy winds and storms, nor 
thrones disrooted. 
Nor molten crowns, nor thine own 
sins, dismay. 

Sinned hast thovi sometime, therefore 
art thou sinless : 
Stained hast thou been, who art there- 
fore without stall) ; 
Even as man's soul is kin to thee, but 
kinless 
Tiu)u, in whose womb Time sows the 
all-various grain. 

I do not bid thee spare me, O dreadful 
mother ! 
I pray thee that thou spare not, of thy 
grace. 
How were it with me then, if ever 
another 
Should come to stand before thee in 
this my place ? 



888 



BRITISH POETS 



Jam the trumpet at thy lips, thy claru)n, 
Full of thy cry, sonorous with thy 
breath ; 
Tlie graves of souls born worms, and 
creeds grown carrion 
Thy blast of judgment fills with fires 
of death. 

Thou art the player whose organ-keys 
are thunders. 
And I. beneath thy foot, the pedal 
pressed ; 
Thou art the ray wliereat tlie rent night 
sunders, 
And I the cloudlet borne upon thy 
breast. 

I shall burn up before thee, pass and 
perish, 
As haze in sunrise on the red sea-line ; 
But thou from dawn to sunsetting slialt 
cherish 
The thoughts that led and souls that 
lighted mine. 

Reared between night and noon and 
truth and error. 
Each twilight-travelling bird that 
trills and soi'eams 
Sickens at midday, nor can face for 
terror 
The imperious heaven's inevitable 
extremes. 

I have no spirit of skill witli equal 
fingers 
At sign to sharpen or to slacken 
strings ; 
I keep no time of song with gold-perched 
singers 
And chirp of linnets on the wrists of 
kings. 

I am thy storm-thrush of the days that 
darken, 
Thy petrel in the foam that beai'S thy 
bark 
To port through night and tempest : if 
thou hearken, 
My voice is in thy lieaven before the 
lark. 

My song is in the mist that hides thy 
morning. 
My cry is up before the day for thee ; 
I have heard thee and beheld thee and 
give warnhig. 
Before thy wheels divide the sky and 
sea. 



Birds shall wake with thee voiced and 
feathered fairer, 
•To see in summer what I see in spring ; 
I have eyes and heart to endure thee, 
O thunder-bearer. 
And tliey shall be who shall have 
tongues to sing. 

I have love at least, and have not fear, 
and part not 
From thine unnavigable and wingless 
way ; 
Thou tarriest, and I have not said thou 
art not. 
Nor all thy night long have denied thy 
day. 

Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy 
pgean, 
Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to 
vale. 
With wind-notes as of eagles ^schy- 
lean. 
And Sappho singing in the nightin- 
gale. 

Sung to bj' mighty sons of dawn and 
daughters. 
Of this night's songs thine ear shall 
keep but one. — 
That supreme song which shook the 
channelled Avaters, 
And called tliee skj'ward as God calls 
the sun. 

Come, though all heaven again be fire 
above thee ; 
Though death before thee come to 
clear thy sky ; 
Let us but see in his thy face who love 
thee ; 
Yea, though thou slay us, arise, and 
let us die. 1871. 

COR CORDIUM 

[Shelley] 

O HEART of hearts, the chalice of love's 

fire. 
Hid round with flowers and all the 

bounty of bloom ; 
O wonderful and perfect heart, for whom 
The lyrist liberty made life a lyre ; 
O heavenly heart, at whose most dear 

desire 
Dead love, living and singing, cleft his 

tomb. 



SWINBURNE 



889 



And with him risen and regent in death's 
room 

All day thy choral pulses rang full choir ; 

O heart whose beating blood was run- 
ning song, 

O s»le thing sweeter than thine own 
songs were, 

Help us for tliy free love's sake to be 
free, 

True for thy truth's sake, for thy 
strength's sake strong, 

Till veiy liberty make clean and fair 

The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea. 

1871. 

"NON DOLET." 

It does not hurt. She looked along the 
knife 

Smiling, and watched the thick drops 
mix and run 

Down the sheer blade ; not that which 
had been done 

Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman 
wife, 

But that which was to do yet ere the 
strife 

Could end for each forever, and tiie sun : 

Nor was tlie palm yet nor was peace j'et 
won 

While pain had power upon her hus- 
band's life. 

It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more 

Than bride to bridegroom ; how shalt 
thou not take 

The gift love's blood has reddened for 
thy sake ? 

Was not thy lifeblood given for us be- 
fore ? 

And if love's heartblood can avail thy 
need, 

And thou not die, how should it hurt 
indeed? 1871. 

THE OBLATION 

Ask nothing more of me. sweet, 
All I can give you I give. 
Heart of my heart, were it more, 
More would be laid at your feet : 
Love that should lielp you to live. 
Song that should spur you to soar. 

All things were nothing to give 
Once to liave sense of you more. 
Touch you and taste of you, sweet. 
Think you and breathe you and live, 
Swept of your wings as they soar. 
Trodden by cliance of your feet. 



I that have love and no more 
Give you but love of you, sweet : 
He that hath more, let him give ; 
He that hath wings, let him soar ; 
Mine is the heart at your feet 
Here, that must love you to live. 

1871. 

A FORSAKEN GARDEN 

In a coign of the cliff between lowland 
and highland. 
At the sea-down's edge between wind- 
ward and lee. 
Walled round with rocks as an inland 
island. 
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
A girdle of brushwood and thorn en- 
closes 
The steep square slope of the blos- 
somless bed 
Where the weeds that grew green from 
the graves of its roses 
Now lie dead. 

The fields fall southward, abrupt and 
broken, 
To the low last edge of the long lone 
land. 
If a step should sound or a word be 
spoken. 
Would a ghost not rise at the strange 
guest's hand ? 
So long have the gray bare walks lain 
guestless. 
Through branches and briars if a man 
make wajs 
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, 
restless 
Night and day. 

The dense hard passage is blind and 
stifled 
That crawls by a track none turn to 
climb 
To the strait waste place that the years 
have rifled 
Of all but the thorns that are touched 
not of time. 
The thorns he spares when the rose is 
taken : 
The rocks are left when he wastes the 
plain ; 
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- 
shaken. 
These remain. 

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that 

falls not ; [plots are dry ; 

As the heart of a dead man the seed- 



8go 



BRITISH POETS 



From the tliicket of thorns whence tlie 
nightingale calls not, 
Could she call, there were never a rose 
to reply. 
Over the meadows that blossom and 
wither, 
Rings but the note of a sea-bii-d's song. 
Onl}^ the sun and the rain come hither 
All year long. 

Tlie sun burns sear, and the rain dishev- 
els 
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless 
breath. 
Only the wind here liovers and revels 
In a round where life seems barren as 
death. 
Here there was laughing of old, there 
was weeping. 
Ha])ly, of lovers none ever will know, 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred 
sleeping 
Years ago. 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, 
" Look thither," 
Did he whisper? "Look forth from 
the flowers to the sea ; 
For the foam-fiowers endure when the 
rose-blossoms witlier. 
And men that love lightly may die — 
But we ? " 
And the same wind sang, and the same 
waves whitened. 
And or ever the garden's last petals 
were shed. 
In tlie lips that had whispered, the ej'es 
tliat had lightened. 
Love was dead. 

Or they loved their life through, and 
then went wliither ? 
xlnd were one to the end — but what 
end who knows? 
Love deep as the sea as a rose must 
wither. 
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks 
tlie rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead 
to love them ? 
Wliat love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above 
them 
Or the wave. 

All are at one now. i-oses and lovei's. 
Not known of the cliffs and the fields 

and the sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been 

hovers 



In the air now soft with a summer to 
be. 
Not a breath shall there sweeten the 
seasons hereafter 
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh 
now or weep, • 

When, as they that are free now of weep- 
ing and laughter, 
We shall sleep. 

Here death may deal not again forever ; 
Here change may come not till all 
change end. 
From the graves they have made they 
shall rise up never, 
Who have left naught living to rav- 
age and rend. 
Earth, stones, and tliorns of the wild 
ground growing. 
When the sun and the rain live, these 
shall be ; 
Till a last wind's breath upon all these 
blowing 
Roll the sea. 

Till tlie slow sea rise and the sheer cliflf 
crumble. 
Till terrace and meadow the deep 
gulfs drink. 
Till the strength of the waves of the high 
tides humble 
Tlie fields that lessen, the rocks that 
shrink. 
Here now in his triunipli whei'e all things 
falter, 
Stretched out on the spoils that his 
own hand spread. 
As a god self-slain on his own strange 
altar. 
Death lies dead. 

July, 1876. 

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND 

I HID my heart in a nest of roses, 

Out of the sun's way, hidden apart : 
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's 
is, 
Under the roses I hid ray heart. 
Why would it sleep not ? why should 
it start. 
When never a leaf of the rose-tree sti rred? 
What made sleep flutter his wings and 
part ? 
Only tlie song of a secret bird. 

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes. 
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's 
dart ; 



SWINBURNE 



891 



Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas 
dozes. 
And the wind is unquieter yet than 

thou art. 
Does a thought in thee still as a 
thorn's wound smart? 
Does tlie fang still fret thee of hope de- 
ferred ? 
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart ? 
Only the song of a secret bird. 

The green land's name that a charm en- 
closes, 
It never was writ in the traveller's 
chart, 
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that 
grows is, 
It never was sold in the mercliant's 

mart. 
The swallows of dreams through its 
dim fields dart. 
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops 
heard ; 
No hound's note wakens the wild- 
wood liart, 
Only tlie song of a secret bird. 



In the world of dreams I have chosen 
my part, 
To sleep fur a season and liear no word 
Of true love's ti'uth orof liglit love's art. 
Only the song of a secret bird. 

September, 1876. 



A BALLAD OF FRANQOIS VILLON, 

PRINCK OF ALL BALLAD-MAKERS 

Bird of the bitter bright gray golden 

morn. 

Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous 

years, 

First of us all and sweetest singer born. 

Wliose far slu'ill note the world of 

new men liears 
Cleave the cold shviddering shade as 
twilight clears ; 
When song new-born put off the old 

world's attire 
And felt its tune on her changed lips ex- 
pire. 
Writ foremost on the I'oll of them that 
came 
Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre. 
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
name ! . 



Alas, the joy. the sorrow, and the scorn. 

That clothed tliy life with hopes and 

sins and fears. 

And gave thee stones for bread and tares 

for corn 

And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy 

starveling peers. 
Till death dipt close their flight with 
sliameful sliears ; 
Till sliifts came short and loves were 

hard to liire, 
Wlien lilt of song nor twitch of twang- 
ling wire 
Could buy thee bread or kisses ; when 
light fame 
Spurned like a ball and haled through 
brake and briar, 
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
name ! 

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled 
and torn ! 
Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with 
light quick tears ! 
Poor perfect voice, most blithe when 
most forlorn. 
That rings athwart the sea whence no 

man steers. 
Like joy -bells crossed with death-bells 
in our ears ! 
What far delight has cooled the fierce 
desire 
That, like some ravenous bird, was 

strong to tire 
On tliat frail flesh and soul consumed 
with flame. 
But left more sweet than roses to respire, 
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
name ? 



Prince of sweet songs made out of tears 
and fire, 

A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire ; 
Shame soiled thy song, and song as- 
soiled thy shame. 

But from tliy feet now death has waslied 
the mire, 

Love reads out first at head of all our 
quire, 
Villon, our .sad bad glad mad brother's 
name. September, 1877. 

TO LOUIS KOSSUTH 

LiaHT of our fathers' eyes, and in our 

own 
Star of the unsetting sunset ! for thy 

name, 



892 



BRITISH POETS 



That on the front of noon was as a fiaine 
In the great year nigh twenty j'eai's agone 
When all the heavens of Europe shook 

and shone 
With stormy wind and lightning, keeps 

its fame 
And bears its witness all day through 

the same ; 
Not for past days and great deeds past 

alone, 
Kossuth, we praise thee as our Landor 

praised. 
But that now too we know thy voice up- 
raised. 
Thy voice, the trumpet of the truth of 

God, 
Thine hand, the thunder-bearer's, raised 

to smite 
As with heaven's lightning for a sword 

and I'od 
Men's heads abased before the Muscovite. 
February, 1878. 

CHILD'S SONG 

What is gold worth, say, 
Worth for work or play, 
Worth to keep or pay, 
Hide or throw away, 

Hope about or fear ? 
What is love worth, pray? 
Worth a tear? 

Golden on tlie mould 
Lie the dead leaves rolled 
Of the wet woods old. 
Yellow leaves and cold. 

Woods witliout a dove ; 
Gold is worth but gold ; 

Love's worth love. 1878. 

TRIADS 



The word of the sun to the sky, 
Tiie word of the wind to the sea, 
Tiie word of the moon to the night, 
What may it be ? 

The sense of the flower to the fly, 
Tlie sense of the bird to the tree. 
The sense of the cloud to the light, 
Who can tell me? 

The song of the fields to the kye, 
Tlie song of the lime to the l)ee. 
The song of the depth to the height. 
Who knows all three ? 



The message of April to May, 
That May sends on into June 
And June gives out to July 
For birthday boon ; 

The delight of the dawn in the day, 
The delight of the daj^ in the noon, 
The delight of a song in a sigh 
That breaks the tune ; 

The secret of passing away. 
The cast of the change of the moon. 
None knows it with ear or witli eye. 
But all will soon. 

Ill 

The live wave's love for the shore, 
The shore's for the wave as it dies, 
The love of the thunder-fire 
That sears the skies — 

We shall know noc though life wax 
hoar, 
Till all life, spent into sighs. 
Burn out as consumed with desire 
Of death's strange eyes ; 

Till the secret be secret no more 
In the light of one hour as it flies. 
Be the hour as of suns that exjjire 
Or suns that rise. 1878. 

ON THE CLIFFS 

itJLep6(j>ii>V0'; ari&aov (SAPPHO) 

Between the moondawn and the sun- 
down here 
The twilight hangs half starless ; half 

the sea 
Still quivers as for love or pain or fear 
Or pleasure Jiiightier than these all mav 

be. 
A man's live heart might beat 
Wherein a God's with mortal blood 

should meet 
And fill its pulse too full to bear the 

strain 
With fear or love or pleasure's twin-born . 

pain. 
Fiercely the gaunt woods to the grim 

soil cling 
That bears for all fair fruits 
Wan wild sparse flowers of windy and 

wintry spring 
Between the tortive serpent-shapen roots 
Wherethrough their dim growth hardly 

strikes and shoots 
And shows one gracious thing ; 



SWINBURNE 



893 



Hardly, to speak for summer one sweet 

word 
Of summer's self scarce heard. 
But liiglier the steep green sterile fields, 

thickset 
With flowerless hawthorn even to the 

upward verge 
Wliencethe woods gathering watch new 

cliffs emerge, 
Higher than their highest of crowns 

that sea-winds fret. 
Holds fast, for all that niglitor windcan 

say. 
Some pale pure color yet, 
Too dim for green and luminous for gray. 
Between the climbing inland clitfs above 
And these beneath that breast and break 

the bay, 
A barren peace too soft for hate or love 
Broods on an hour too dim for niglit or 

day. 
O wind, O wingless wind that walk'st 

the sea. 
Weak wind, wing-broken, wearier wind 

than we, 
Who are yet not spirit-broken, maimed 

like thee. 
Who wail not in ouv inward night as 

thou 
l!i the outer darkness now, 
Wliat word has the old sea given thee 

for mine ear 
From tliy faint lips to liear? 
For some word would she send me, know- 
ing not how. 

Nay, what far other word 

Tlian ever of her was spoken, or of me 

Or all my winged white kinsfolk of the 

sea 
Between fresh wave and wave was ever 

heard , 
Cleaves the clear dark en win ding tree 

with tree 
Too close for stars to sepai-ate and to see 
Enmeshed in multitudinous unity ? 
What voice of wliat strong God hath 

stormed and stirred 
The fortressed rock of silence, rent apart 
Even to the core Night's all maternal 

heart ? 
What voice of God grown heavenlier in 

a bird. 
Make keener of edge to smite 
Than lightning, — yea, thou knowest, O 

mother Night, 
Keen as that cry from thy strange cliil- 

dren sent ^ 

1 In Aeschylus' Eumenides. 



Wherewith tlie Athenian judgment- 
shrine was rent. 

For wrath tliat all tlieir wi-ath was vainly 
spent. 

Their wrath for wrong made right 

By justice in her own divine despite 

That bade pass forth un blamed 

The sinless matricide and unashamed ? 

Yea, what new cry is this, wliat note 
more briglit 

Than their song's wing of words w;is 
dark of flight, 

What word is this thou hast lieard. 

Thine and not thine or theirs, O Night, 
what word 

More keen than lightning and more 
sweet than light? 

As all men's hearts grew godlike in one 
l)ird 

And all those he;irts cried on thee, cry- 
ing with might. 

Hear us, O mother Night ! 

Dumb is the mouth of darkness as of 

death : 
Light, sound and life are one 
In the ej^es and lips of dawn that draw 

the sun 
To hear what first child's word with 

glimmering breath 
Their weak wan weanling child the 

twilight saith ; 
But night makes answer none. 

God, if thou be god, — bird, if bird thou 

be,— 
Do thou then answer me. 
For but one word, what wind soever 

blow. 
Is blown up usward ever from the sea. 
In fruitless years of youth dead long 

ago [and snow 

And deep beneath their own dead leaves 
Buried, I heard with bitter lieart and sere 
The same sea's word unchangeable, nor 

knew 
But that mine own life-days were 

changeless too. 
And sharp and salt with unshed tear on 

tear. 
And cold and fierce and barren ; and 

my soul, 
Sickening, swam weakly with bated 

breath 
In a deep sea like death. 
And felt the wind buffet her face with 

brine 
Hard, and harsh thought on thought in 

long bleak roll 



894 



BRITISH POETS 



Blown by keen gusts of memory sad as 

thine 
Heap the weight up of pain, and break, 

and leave 
Strength scarce enough to grieve 
In the sick heavy spirit, unmanned with 

strife 
Of waves that beat at the tired lips of 

life. 

Nay, sad may be man's memory, sad 

may be 
The dream lie weaves him as for shadow 

of thee, 
But scarce one breathing-space, one 

heartbeat long, 
Wilt thou take shadow of sadness on thy 

song. 
Not thou, being more than man or man's 

desire. 
Being bird and God in one, 
With throat of gold and spirit of the 

sun ; 
The sun whom all our souls and songs 

call sire. 
Whose godhead gave thee, chosen of all 

our quire. 
Thee only of all that serve, of all that 

sing 
Before our sire and king. 
Borne up some space on time's world- 
wandering wing. 
This gift, this doom, to bear till time's 

wing tire — 
Life everlasting of eternal fire. 

Thee only of all ; yet can no memory say 

How many a night and day 

My heart has been as thy heart, and my 

life 
As thy life is, a sleepless hidden thing. 
Full of the thirst and hunger of winter 

and spring. 
That seeks its food not in such love or 

strife 
As fill men's hearts with passionate 

hours and rest. 
From no loved lips and on no loving 

breast 
Have I sought ever for such gifts as bring 
Comfort, to stay the secret soul with 

sleep. 
The joys, the loves, the labors, whence 

men reap 
Rathe fruit of hopes and fears, 
I have made not mine ; the best of all 

my days 
Have been as those fair fruitless summer 

strays, 



Those water- waifs that but the sea-wind 
.steers. 

Flakes of glad foam or flowers on foot- 
less ways 

That take the wind in season and the 
.sun. 

And when the wind wills is their season 
done. 

For all my days as all thy days from 

birth 
My heart as thy heart was in me as 

thee. 
Fire ; and not all the fountains of the 

sea 
Have waves enough to quench it, nor on 

earth 
Is fuel enough to feed. 
While day sows night, and night sows 

day for seed. 

We were not marked for sorrow, thou 

nor I, 
For joy nor sorrow, sister, were we made. 
To take delight and grief to live and 

die. 
Assuaged by pleasures or by pains af- 

frayed 
That melt men's hearts and alter ; we 

retain 
A memory mastering pleasure and all 

l)ain, 
A spirit within the sense of ear and eye, 
A soul behind the soul, that seeks and 

sings 
And makes our life move only with its 

wings 
And feed but from its lips, that in re- 
turn 
Feed of our hearts wherein the old fii'es 

tliat burn 
Have strength not to consume 
Nor glory enough to exalt us past our 

doom. 

Ah, ah, the doom (thou knowest whence 

rang that wail) 
Of the shrill nightingale ! 
(From whose wild lips, thou knowest, 

that wail was thrown) 
For round about her liave the great goda 

cast 
A tving-borne body, and clothed her close 

and fast 
With a sweet life that hath no part in 

moan. 
But m,e, for me (how hadst thou heart to 

hear?) [spear. 

Remains a sundering ivith the tioo-edged 



SWINBURNE 



89s 



Ah, for her doom ! so cried in presage 

then 
The bodeful bondslave of the king of 

men, 
And might not win her will. 
Too close the entangling dragnet woven 

of crime, 
The snare of ill new-born of elder ill. 
The curse of new time for an elder 

time. 
Had caught and held her yet, 
Enmeslied intolerably in the intolerant 

net. 
Who thought with craft to mock the 

God most high, 
And win by wiles his crown of prophecy 
From the sun's hand sublime, 
As God were man, to spare or to forget. 

But thou, — the gods have given thee and 

forgiven thee 
More than our master gave 
That strange-eyed, spirit- wounded, 

strange-tongued slave 
There questing houndlike where the 

roofs red-wet 
Reeked as a wet red grave. 
Life everlasting has their strange grace 

given thee, 
Even hers whom thou wast wont to sing 

and serve 
With eyes, but not with song, too swift 

to swerve ; 
Yet might not even thine eyes estranged 

estrange her, 
Who seeing thee too, but inly, burn and 

bleed 
Like that pale princess-priest of Priam's 

seed, 
For stranger service gave thee guerdon, 

stranger 
If this indeed be guerdon, this indeed 
Her mercy, this thy meed — 
That thou, being more than all we born, 

being higlier 
Than all heads crowned of him that only 

gives 
Tlie light whereby man lives, 
The bay that bids man moved of God's 

desire 
Lay hand on lute or lyre. 
Set lip to trumpet or deflowered green 

reed — 
If this were given thee for a grace in- 
deed, 
That thou, being fir.st of all these, thou 

alone 
Shouldst have the grace to die not, but 

to live, 



And loose nor change one pulse of song, 
one tone 

Of all that were thy lady's and thine 
own, 

The lady's whom thou criedst on to for- 
give, 

Thou, priest and sacrifice on the altar- 
stone 

Where none may worsliip not of all that 
live. 

Love's ])riestess, errant on dark ways 
diverse ; 

If this were grace indeed for Love to 
give. 

If this indeed were blessing and no 
curse. 

Love's priestess, mad witli pain and joy 

of song. 
Song's priestess, ma,d with joy and pain 

of love. 
Name above all names that are lights 

above. 
We have lov'd, prais'd, pitied, crown'd, 

and done tliee wrong, 
O thovi past praise and pity ; thou the 

sole 
Utterly deathless, perfect onlj^ and 

whole 
Immortal, body and soul. 
For over all whom time hatli overpast 
The shadow of sleep inexorable is cast. 
The implacable sweet shadow of perfect 

sleep 
That gives not back what life gives death 

to kee]) ; 
Yea, all that liv'd and lov'd and sang 

and sinn'd 
Are all borne down death's cold, sweet, 

soundless wind 
Tliat blows all night and knows not 

whom its breath. 
Darkling, may touch to deatli : 
But one that wind hath touch'd and 

changed not, — one 
Whose body and soul are parcel of the 

sun ; 
One that earth's fire could burn not, nor 

the sea 
Quench ; nor miglit human doom take 

hold on thee ; 
All praise, all pity, all dreams have done 

thee wrong. 
All love, with eyes love-blinded from 

above ; 
Song's priestess, mad with joy and pain 

of love, 
Love's priestess, mad with pain and joy 

of song. 



896 



BRITISH POETS 



Hast thou none other answer then for 

nie 
Than the air may have of thee, 
Or tlie earth's warm woodlands girdling 

witli green girth 
Thy secret, sleepless, burning life on 

earth, 
Or even the sea that once, being woman 

crown 'd 
And girt witli fire and glory of anguish 

round, 
Thou wert so fain to seek to, fain to 

crave 
If she would hear thee and save 
And give thee comfort of thy great 

green grave ? 
Because I liave known thee always who 

thou art. 
Thou knowest. have known thee to thy 

heart's own heart, 
Nor ever have given light ear to storied 

song 
That did thy sweet name sweet unwit- 
ting wrong. 
Nor ever have called thee nor would call 

for sliame. 
Thou knowest, but inly, by thine only 

name, 
Sappho — because I have known thee 

and loved, hast thou 
None other answer now? 
As brother and sister were we, child 

and bird. 
Since thy first Lesbian word 
Flamed on me, and I knew^ not whence 

I knew 
This was the song that struck mj'^ whole 

soul through. 
Pierced my keen spirit of sense with 

edge more keen, 
Even when I knew not — even ere sooth 

was seen — 
When thou wast but the tawny sweet 

winged thing 
Whose cry was but of spring. 

And yet even so thine ear should hear 

me — yea. 
Hear me this nightfall by this northland 

bay. 
Even for their sake whose loud good 

word I had, 
Singing of thee in the all-beloved clime 
Once, where the windy wine of spring 

makes mad 
Our sisters of Majano, who kept time 
Clear to my choral rhyme. 
Yet was the song acclaimed of these 

aloud 



Whose praise had made mute humble- 
ness niisproud, 

The song w-ith answering song ap- 
plauded thus. 

But of that Daulian dream of It.ylus. 

So but for love's love haply was it — nay. 

How else? — that even their song took 
my song's part, 

For love of love and sweetness of sweet 
heart, 

Or god-given glorious madness of mid 
]\Iay 

And heat of heart and hunger and 
thirst to sing, 

Full of the new wine of the wind of 
spring. 

Or if this were not, and it be not sin 
To hold myself in spirit of thy sweet 

kin, 
In heart and spirit of song ; 
If this my great love do thy grace no 

wrong, 
Thy grace that gave me grace to dwell 

therein ; 
If thy gods thus be my gods, and their 

will 
Made mj'^ song part of thj' song — even 

such part 
As man's liath of God's heart — 
And my life like as thy life to fulfil ; 
What have our gods then given us? 

Ah, to thee 
Sister, much mox'e, much happier than 

to me. 
Much happier things they have given, 

and more of grace 
Than falls to man's light race ; 
For lighter are we. all our love and pain 
Lighter than tliine, who knowest of 

time or place 
Thus much, that place nor time 
Can heal or hurt or lull or change 

again 
The singing soul that makes his soul 

suljlime 
Who hears the far fall of its fire-fledged 

rhyme 
Fill darkness as with bright and burning 

rain, 
Till all the live gloom inlv glows, and 

light 
Seems with the sound to cleave the core 

of night. 

The singing .soul that moves thee, and 

tliat moved 
When thou wast woman, and their 

songs divine 



SWINBURNE 



897 



Who mixed for Grecian mouths heav- 
en's lyric wine 
Fell dumb, fell down reproved 
Before one sovereign Lesbian song of 

thine. 
That soul, though love and life had fain 

held fast, 
Wind-winged with fiery music, rose 

and past 
Through the indi'awn hollovy of earth 

and heaven and hell, 
As through some strait sea-shell 
The wide sea's immemorial song, — the 

sea 
That sings and breathes in strange men's 

ears of thee 
How in her barren bride bed, void and 

vast, 
Even thy soul sang itself to sleep at last. 

To sleep ? Ah, then, what song is this, 

that here 
Makes all the night one ear, 
One ear fulfilled and mad with music, 

one 
Heart kindling as the heart of heaven, 

to hear 
A song more fiery than the awakening 

sun 
Sings, when his song sets fire 
To the air and clouds that build the 

dead night's pyre ? 
O thou of divers-colored mind, O thou 
Deathless, Ood's daughter, subtle-soided 

— lo, now, 
Now to the song above all songs, in flight 
Higher than the day-star's height, 
And sweet as sound tlie moving wings 

of night ! 
TJioii of the divers-colored seat — behold. 
Her very song of old I — 
O deathless, O Qod's daughter, subtle- 
soided ! 
That same cry through this boskage 

overhead 
Rings round reiterated, 
Palpitates as the last palpitated. 
The last tliat panted through her lips 

and died 
Not down this gray north sea's half 

sapped cliff -side 
That crumbles toward the coastline, 

year by year 
More near the sands and near ; 
The last loud lyric fiery cry she cried. 
Heard once on heights Leucadian, — 

heard not here. 
Not here ; for this that fires our north- 
land night, 

57 



This is the song that made 

Love fearful, even the heart of love 
afraid, 

With the great anguish of its great de- 
light. 

No swan-song, no far-fluttering half- 
drawn breath, 

No word that love of love's sweet nature 
saith, 

No dirge that lulls the narrowing lids of 
death, 

No healing hymn of peace-prevented 
strife, — 

This is her song of life. 

I loved thee, — hark, one tenderer note 

than all — 
Atthis, of old time, once — one low long 

fall, 
Sighing— one long low lovely loveless 

call. 
Dying — one pause in song so flamelike 

fast — 
Atthis, long since in old time overjjast — 
One soft first pause and last. 
One, — then the old rage of rapture's 

fieriest rain 
Storms all the music-maddened night 

again. 

Child of God, close craft siooman, I he- 
seech thee 

Bid not ache nor agony break nor mas- 
ter, 

Lady, my spirit — 

O thou her mistress, might her cry not 
reach thee ? 

Our Lady of all men's loves, could Love 
go past her. 

Pass, and not hear it ? 

She hears not as she heard not : hears 

not me, 
O trebled-natured mystery — how should 

she 
Hear, or give ear? — who heard and 

heard not thee ; 
Heai'd and went past, and heard not ; 

but all time 
Hears all that all the ravin of his years 
Hath cast not wholly out of all men's 

ears 
And dulled to death with deep dense 

funeral chime 
Of their reiterate rhyme. 
And now of all songs uttering all her 

praise. 
All hers who had thy praise and did thee 
• wrong, 



898 



BRITISH POETS 



Abides one song yet of lier lyric days. 
Thine only, tliis tlij' song. 

O soul triune, woman and god and 

bird, 
Man, man at least has heard. 
All ages call thee conqueror, and thy 

cry 
The migjitiest as the least beneath the 

sky 
Whose heart was ever set to song, or 

stirred 
With wind of mounting music blown 

more high 
Tlian wildest wing may fly. 
Hath heard or hears, — even ^schylus 

as I. 
But when thy name was woman, and 

thy word 
Human, — then haply, surely then me- 

seems 
This thy bird's note was heard on earth 

of none, 
Of none save only in dreams. 
In all the world then surely was but 

one 
Song ; as in heaven at highest one 

sceptred sun 
Regent, on earth here surely without fail 
One only, one imperious nightingale. 
Dumb was the field, the woodland mute, 

the lawn 
Silent ; the hill was tongueless as the 

vale 
Even when the last fair waif of cloud 

that felt 
Its heart beneath the coloring moonrays 

melt. 
At high midnoon of midnight half with- 
drawn, 
Bared all the sudden deep divine moon- 
dawn. 
Then, vmsaluted by her twin-born tune. 
That latter timeless morning of the 

moon 
Rose past its hour of moonrirje ; clouds 

gave way 
To the old reconquering ray. 
But no song answering made it more 

than day ; 
No cry of song by night 
Shot fire into the cloud-constraining 

light. 
One only, one ^olian island heard 
Thi-ill, but through no bird's throat. 
In one strange manlike maiden's godlike 

note, 
Tlie song of all these as a single bird ; 
Till the sea's portal was as funeral gate 



For that sole singer in all time's ageless 

date 
Singled and signed for so triumphal 

fate. 
All nightingales but one in all the world 
All lier sweet life were silent ; only 

then. 
When her life's wing of womanhood was 

furled, 
Their crj^ this cry of thine was heard 

again, 
As of me now, of any born of men. 

Through sleepless clear spring nights 

filled full of thee. 
Rekindled here, thy ruling song has 

thrilled 
The deep dark air and subtle tender sea 
And breathless hearts with one bright 

sound fulfilled. 
Or at midnoon to me 
Swimming, and birds about my happier 

head 
Skimming, one smooth soft way by 

water and air, 
To these my bright born brethren and to 

me 
Hath not the clear wind borne or seemed 

to bear 
A song wherein all earth and heaven 

and sea 
Were molten in one music made of thee 
To enforce us, O our sister of the shore, 
Look once in heart back landward and 

adore ? 
For songless were we sea-mews, yet had 

we 
More joy than all things joyful of thee — 

more, 
Haply, than all things happiest ; nay, 

save thee. 
In thy strong rapture of imperious joy 
Too high for heart of sea-borne bird or 

boy. 
What living things were happiest if not 

we? 
But knowing not love nor change nor 

wrath nor wrong, 
No more we knew of song. 

Song, and the secrets of it, and their 

might, 
What blessings cui'se it and what curses 

bless, 
I know them since my spirit had first in 

sight. 
Clear as thy song's words or the live 

sun's light. 
The small dark body's Lesbian loveliness 



SWINBURNE 



899 



That held the fire eternal ; eye and ear 
Were as a god's to see, a god's to liear. 
Through all his hours of daily and night- 
ly chime, 
The sundering of the two-edged spear of 

time : 
Tlie spear that pierces even the seven- 
fold sh velds 
Of mightiest Memory, mother of all songs 

made. 
And wastes all songs as roseleaves kissed 

and frayed 
As here tlie harvest of the foam-flowered 

fields ; 
But thine the spear may waste not tliat 

he wields 
Since first the God whose soul is man's 

live breatli, 
The sun whose face hath our sun's face 

for shade, 
Put all the light of life and love and 

death 
Too strong for life, but not for love too 

strong, 
Where pain makes peace with pleasure 

in th}^ song, 
And in tliine heart, where love and song 

make strife, 
Fire everlasting of eternal life. 1880. 

ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CAR- 
LYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT 

Two souls divei'se out of our human sight 

Pass, followed one with love and each 
with wonder : 

The stormy sophist with his mouth of 
thunder. 

Clothed with loud words and mantled in 
the might 

Of darkness and magnificence of night ; 

And one whose eye could smite the night 
in sunder. 

Searching if light or no light were there- 
under. 

And found in love of loving-kindness 
light. 

Duty divine and Thought with eyes of 
fii'e 

Still following Righteousness with deep 
desire 

Shone sole and stern before lier and 

above- 
Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but 
more sweet 

Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earth- 
ly feet, — 

The light of little children, and their 
love. April, 1881. 



SONG FROM MARY STUART 

And ye maun braid your yellow hair, 

And busk ye like a bride ; 
Wi' sevenscore men to bring ye hame, 

And ae true love beside : 
Between the birk and the green rowan 

Fu' blithely shall ye ride. 

O ye maun braid my yellow hair, 
But braid it like nae bride ; 

And I maun gang my ways, mither, 
Wi' nae true love beside ; 

Between the kirk and the kirkyard 
Fu' sadly shall I ride. 1881. 

HOPE AND FEAR 

Beneath the shadow of dawn's aerial 

cope. 
With ej^es enkindled as the sun's own 

sphere, 
Hope from the front of youth in god- 

'like cheer 
Looks Godward, past the shades where 

blind men grope 
Round the dark door that prayers nor 

dreams can ope, 
And makes for joy the very darkness 

dear 
That gives her wide wings play ; nor 

dreams that fear 
At noon ma}'^ rise and pierce the heart of 

hope. 
Then, when the soul leaves off to dream 

and yearn, 
]May truth first purge her eyesight to 

discern 
What once being known leaves time no 

power to appal ; 
Till youth at last, ere yet j'outh be not, 

learn 
Tlie kind wise word that falls from 

years tliat fall — 
' ' Hope thou not much, and fear thou 

not at all." 1882. 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Not if men's tongues and angels' all in 

one 
Spake, might the word be said that 

might speak Thee. 
Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, 

mountains, yea, the sea, 
What power is in them all to praise the 

sun ? 
His praise is this, — he can be praised of 

none. 



900 



BRITISH POETS 



Man, woman, child, praise God for him ; 

but he 
Exults not to be worsliipped. but to be. 
He is ; and, being, beholds his work well 

done. 
All jo3% all glory, all sorrow, all strength, 

all mirth, 
Are his : without him, day were night 

on earth. 
Time knows not his from time's own 

period. 
All lutes, all harjis, all viols, all flutes, 

all Ijres, 
Fall dumb before him ere one string 

suspires. 
All stars are angels ; but the sun is God. 

1882. 

CHILDREN 

Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

No glory that ever was shed 
From the crowning star of the seven 

That crown the north world's head, 

No word that ever was spoken 
Of human or godlike tongue, 

Gave ever such godlike token 
Since human harps were strung. 

No sign that ever was given 

To faithful or faithless ej'os 
Showed ever bej'ond clouds riven 

So clear a Paradise. 

Earth's creeds may be seventy times 
seven 

And blood have defiled each creed : 
If of such be the kingdom of heaven, 

It must be heaven indeed. 1883. 

A CHILD'S LAUGHTER 

All the bells of heaven may ring. 
All the birds of heaven may sing. 
All the wells on earth may spring. 
All the winds on earth may bring 

All sweet sounds together ; 
Sweeter far than all things heard. 
Hand of liarper, tone of bird, 
Sound of woods at sundawn stirr'd, 
Welling water's winsome word, 

Wind in warm wan weather, 

One thing yet there is, that none 
Hearing ere its chime lie done 
Knows not well tlie sweetest one 
Heard of man beneath the sun, 
Hoped in heaven hereafter ; 



Soft and strong and loud and light, 
Verj^ sound of very light 
Hoard froui morning's rosiest height, 
AVlien tlie siml of all delight 
Fills a child's clear laughter. 

Golden bells of welcome roU'd 
Never forth such notes, nor told 
Hours so blithe in tones so bold, 
As tlie radiant mouth of gold 

Here tliat rings fortli heaven. 
If the golden-crested wren 
Were a nightingale — why. then 
Sometliing seen and heard of men 
Might be half as sweet as wlien 

Laughs a child of seven. 1883. 

THE SALT OF THE EARTH 

If childhood were not in the world, 
But only men and women grown ; 

No baby-locks in tendrils curled. 
No baby-blossoms blown ; 

Though men were stronger, women 
fairer. 

And nearer all delights in reach. 
And verse and music uttered rarer 

Tones of more godlike speech ; 

Though the utmost life of life's best 
hours 
Found, as it cannot now find, words ; 
Though desert sands were sweet as 
flowers 
And flowers could sing like birds, 

But children never heard them, never 
Tlie,y felt a child's foot leap and run : 

This were a drearier star tlian ever 
Yet looked upon the sun. 1883. 

CHILD AND POET 

You send me your love in a letter, 
I send you my love in a song : 

Ah child, your gift is the better. 
Mine does you but wrong. 

No fame, were the best less brittle. 
No praise, were it wide as eartli, 

Is worth so much as a little 
Cliild's love may be worth. 

We see the children above lis 
As tliey miglit angels above : 

Come back to us, child, if 3'ou love us, 
And bring us your love. 1882. 



SWINBURNE 



901 



A CHILD'S FUTUKE 

What will it please you, my darling, 

hereafter to be ? 
Fame upon land will you look for, or 

glory by sea ? 
Gallant your life will be alwaj's, and all 

of it free. 

Free as tlie wind when the heart of the 
twilight is stirred 

Eastward, and sounds from the sjirings 
of the sunrise are heard : 

Fi'ee — and we know not another as in- 
finite word. 

Darkness or twilight or sunlight may 

compass us round. 
Hate may arise up against us, or hope 

may confound ; 
Love may forsake us ; yet may not the 

spirit be bound. 

Free in oppi'ession of grief as in ardor of 

joy 

Still may the sovil be, and each to her 

strength as a toy : 
Free in the glance of the man as the 

smile of the boy. 

Freedom alone is the salt and the spirit 

that gives 
Life, and without her is nothing that 

verily lives : 
Death cannot slay her : she laughs upon 

death and forgives. 

Brightest and hardiest of roses anear 

and afar 
Glitters the blithe little face of J'ou, 

round as a star : 
Liberty bless you and keep you to be as 

you are. 

England and liberty bless j^ou and keep 

you to be 
Worthy the name of their child and the 

sight of their sea ; 
Fear not at all ; for a slave, if he fears 

not, is free. 1883. 

ETUDE REALISTE 

I 

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink. 

Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, 
An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 
A baby's feet. 



Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the 
heat 
Tiiey stretch and spread and wink 
Tlieir ten soft buds that part and meet. 

No fiower-bells that expand and shrink 

Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As sliine on life's untrodden brink 
A baby's feet. 

II 

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furl'd, 

Whence yet no leaf expands. 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurl'd 
A baby's hands. 

Then, even as warriors grip their brands 

Wlien battle's bolt is hurl'd, 
They close, clench'd hard like tighten- 
ing bands. 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearl'd 

Match, even in loveliest lands, 
Tiie sweetest flowers in all the world — 
A baby's hands. 



A baby's eyes, ere speech begin. 
Ere lips learn words or sighs. 
Bless all tilings bright enough to win 
A baby's eyes. 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and 
lies. 
And sleep flows out and in. 
Lies perfect in tliem Paradise. 

Tlieir glance might cast ovit pain and sin, 

Their speech make dumb the wise, 
By mute glad godhead felt within 

A baby's eyes. 1883. 

IN GUERNSEY 

(to THEODORE WATTS) 



The heavenl3'- ba}^ ringed round with 

cliffs and moors. 
Storm-stained ravines, and crags that 

lawns inlay. 
Soothes as with love the rocks whose 

guard secures 
The heavenly bay. 

O friend, shall time take even this away, 
This blessing given of beauty that en- 
dures, 
This glory shown us, not to pass but stay ? 



902 



BRITISH POETS 



Though siglit be changed for memory, 

love ensures 
What memory, cliangecl by love to sight, 

would sa}'^ — 
The word that seals for ever mine and 

yours, 
The heavenly bay. 



My mother sea, my fostress, what new 

strand , 
What new delight of waters, may this be, 
The fairest found since time's first 

breezes fanned 
My mother sea ? 

Once more I give me body and soul to 

tliee. 
Who hast my soul for ever : cliflf and 

sand 
Recede, and heart to lieart once more 

are we. 

My heart springs first and jilunges, ere 

my hand 
Strike out from shore : more close it 

brings to me. 
More near and dear than seems my 

fatherland, 
M}"^ mother sea. 



Across and along, as tlie baj^'s breadth 

opens, and o'er us 
Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift 

rapture and strong 
Impels us, and broader the wide waves 

brighten before us 
Across and along. 

The whole world's heart is uplifted, and 

knows not wrong ; 
The whole world's life is a chant to the 

sea-tide's chorus ; 
Are Ave not as waves of the water, as 

notes of the song ? 

Like children unworn of the passions and 

toils that wore us. 
We breast for a season the breadth of the 

seas that throng, 
Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old 

they bore us 
Across and along. 1883. 

A SINGING LESSON 

Fak-fetched and dear bought, as the 
proverb rehearses, 



Is good, or was held so, for ladies ; but 

nought 
In a song can be good if the turn of the 

verse is 
Far-fetched and dear bought. 

As the turn of a wave should it sound, 

and the thought 
Ring smooth, and as light as the spray 

that disperses 
Be the gleam of the words for the garb 

thereof wrought. 

Let tlie soul in it shine through the 

sound as it pierces 
Men's hearts with possession of music 

unsought ; 
For tlie bounties of song are no jealous 

god's mercies. 
Far-fetched and dear bought. 1883. 

THE ROUNDEL 

A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a 

star bright sphere. 
With craft of delight and with cunning 

of sound unsought, 
That the heart of the hearer may smile 

if to pleasure his ear 
A roundel is wrought. 

Its jewel of music is carven of all or of 
aught — 

Love, laugliter, or mourning— remem- 
brance of rapture or fear — 

That fancy may fashion to hang in the 
ear of thought. 

As a bii-d's quick song runs round, and 

the hearts in vis hear — 
Pause answers to pause, and again the 

same strain cauglit. 
So moves the device whence, round as a 
pearl or tear, 
A roundel is wrought. 

1883. 

A SOLITUDE 

Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of 

sand , 
Here ivory smootli. liere cloven and 

ridged with flow 
Of cliannelled waters soft as rain or 

snow. 
Stretch their lone length at ease beneath 

the bland 
Gray gleam of skies whose smile on 

wave and strand 
Shines weary like a man's who smiles to 

know 



SWINBURNE 



903 



That now no dream can mock his faith 

with show, 
Nor cloud for liim seem living sea or 

land. 
Is there an end at all of all this waste. 
These crumbling cliffs defeatured and 

defaced. 
These ruinous heights of sea-sapped 

walls that slide 
Seaward with all tiieir banks of bleak 

blown flowers 
Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope sub- 
side 
Beneath the coil of dull dense waves 

and hours? June, 1884. 

ON A COUNTRY ROAD 

Along these low pleached lanes, on such 

a day. 
So soft a day as this, through shade and 

sun, 
With glad grave eyes that scanned the 

glad wild way 
And heart still hovering o'er a song 

begun, 
And smile that warmed the world with 

benison. 
Our father, lord long since of lordly 

rhyme, 
Long since hath haply ridden, when the 

lime 
Bloomed broad above him, flowering 

where he came. 
Because thy passage once made warm 

this clime, 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 

name. 

Each 3'ear that England clothes herself 

with May, 
She takes thy likeness on her. Time 

hath spun 
Fresh raiment all in vain and strange 

array 
For earth and man's new spirit, fain to 

shun 
Things past for dreams of better to be 

won. 
Through many a century since thy fun- 
eral chime 
Rang, and men deemed it death's most 

direful crime 
To have spared not thee for very love or 

shame ; 
And yet, while mists round last j^ear's 

memories climb. 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 

name. 



Each turn of the old wild road whereon 

we stray, 
Meseems. might bring us face to face 

with one 
Whom seeing we could not but give 

thanks, and pray 
For England's love our father and her 

son 
To speak with us as once in days long 

done 
With all men, sage and churl and monk 

and mime. 
Who knew not as we know the soul sub- 
lime 
That sang for song's love more than 

lust of fame. 
Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy 

time. 
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 

name. 

Friend, even as bees about the flower- 
ing thyme. 

Years crowd on j'ears, till hoar decay 
begrime 

Names once beloved ; but seeing the 
sun the same. 

As birds of autumn fain to praise the 
prime, 

Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 
name. June, 1884. 

THE SEABOARD 

The sea is at ebb, and the sound of her 

utmost word 
Is soft as the least wave's lapse in a still 

small reach. 
From bay unto bay, on quest of a goal 

deferred. 
From headland ever to headland and 

breach to breach 
Where earth gives ear to the message 

that all days preach 
With changes of gladness and sadness 

that cheer and chide. 
The lone way lures me along by a chance 

untried 
That haply, if hope dissolve not and 

faith be whole, 
Not all for nought shall I seek, with a 

dream for guide. 
The goal that is not, and ever again the 

goal. 

The trackless ways are un travelled of 

sail or bird ; 
The hoar wave hardly recedes from the 

soundless beach. 



904 



BRITISH POETS 



The silence of instant noon goes nigh to 

be heard, 
The viewless void to be A'isible : all and 

each, 
A closure of calm no clamor of storm 

can breach 
Concludes and confines and absorbs them 

on either side, 
All forces of light and of life and the 

live world's pride. 
Sands hardly ruffled of ripples that 

hardly roll 
Seem ever to show as in reach of a swift 

brief stride [goal. 

The goal that is not, and ever again the 

The waves are a joy to the seamew, the 

meads to the herd, 
And a joy to the heart is a goal that it 

may not reach. 
No sense that for ever the limits of sense 

engird, 
No hearing or sight that is vassal to 

form or speech. 
Learns ever the secret that shadow and 

silence teach, 
Hears ever the notes that or ever they 

swell subside, 
Sees ever the light that lights not the 

loud world's tide, 
Clasps ever the cause of the lifelong 

scheme's control 
Wherethrough we pursue, till the waters 

of life be dried, [goal. 

The goal that is not, and ever again the 

Friend, what have we sought or seek we, 

whate'er betide. 
Though the seaboard shift its mark from 

afar descried. 
But aims whence ever anew shall arise 

the soul ? 
Love, thought, song, life, but show for 

a glimpse and hide 
The goal that is not, and ever again the 

goal. 1884. 

THE CLIFFSIDE PATTI 

Seaward goes the sun, and homeward 

by the dovv'n 
We, before the night upon his grave be 

sealed. 
Low behind us lies the bright steep 

murmuring town. 
High before us heaves the steep rough 

silent field. 
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs 

collapsing yield : 



Half the path is broken, lialf the banks 

divide ; 
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, 

they cleave and slide 
Toward tlie ridged and wrinkled waste 

of girdling sand 
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how 

far and wide 
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 

the strand. 

Star by star on the unsunned waters 
twiring down. 

Golden spear-points glance against a 
silver shield. 

Over banks and bents, across the head- 
land's crown. 

As by pulse of gradual plumes through 
twilight wheeled, 

Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes 
the weald. 

Moor and copse and fallow, near or far 
descried, 

Feel the mild wings move, and gladden 
where they glide : 

Silence uttering love that all things un- 
derstand. 

Bids the quiet fields forget that hard 
beside 

Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 
the strand. 

Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft 

shade grow brown, 
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents 

unhealed 
Where the scarred cliffs downward 

sundering drive and drown, 
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in 

tempest steeled. 
Wielded as tlie night's will and the 

wind's may wield. 
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers 

of autumn-tide. 
Life and love seek harborage on the land- 

wai-d side ; 
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 

the strand. 

Friend, though man be less than these, 

for all his pride, 
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope 

abide ? 
Wind and change can wreck but life and 

waste but land : 
Truth and trust are sure, though here 

till all subside 
Wind is lord and cliange is sovereign of 

the strand. 1884. 



SWINBURNE 



905 



IN THE WATER 

The sea is awake, and the sound of the 

song of the jo}^ of her waking is rolled 
From afar to the star that recedes, from 

anear to the wastes of tlie wild wide 

shore. 
Her call is a trumpet compelling ns 

homeward : if dawn in her east be 

acokl, 
From tlie sea shall we crave not her 

grace to rekindle the life that it kin- 
dled before, 
Her breath to requicken. her bosom to 

rock us, her kisses to bless as of yore ? 
For the wind, with his wings half open, 

at pause in the sky, neither fettered 

nor free. 
Leans waveward and flutters the ripple 

to laughter : and fain would the twain 

of us be 
Where lightly the wave yearns forward 

from under the curve of the deep 

dawn's dome. 
And, full of tiie morning and fired with 

the pride of the glory thereof and the 

glee, 
Strike out from the shore as the heart 

in us bids and beseeches, athirst for 

the foam. 

Life holds not an hour that is better to 

live in : the past is a tale that is told. 
The future a sun-flecked shadow, alive 

and asleep, with a blessing in store. 
As we give us again to the waters, the 

rapture of limbs that the waters en- 
fold 
Is less than the rapture of s])irit whereby, 

though the burden it quits were sore. 
Our souls and the bodies they wield at 

their will are absorbed in the life they 

adore — • 
In the life that endures no burden, and 

bows not the forehead, and bends not 

the knee — 
In the life everlasting of earth and of 

heaven, in the laws that atone and 

agree. 
In the measureless music of things, in the 

fervor of forces that rest or that roam. 
Tliat cross and return and reissue, as I 

after j'ou and as you after me 
Strike out from the shore as the heart in 

us bids and beseeches, athirst for the 

foam. 

For, albeit he were less than the least of 
them, haply the heart of a man may 
be bold 



To rejoice in tlie wt>rd of the sea, as a 

mother's that saith to the son she bore, 
" Child, was not the life in thee mine, 

and my spirit the breath in thy lij^s 

from of old ? 
Have I let not thy weakness exult in my 

strength, and thy foolishness learn of 

my lore ? 
Have I helped not or healed not thine 

anguish, or made not the might of thy 

gladness more ? " 
And surely his heart should answer, ' ' The 

light of the love of my life is in thee." 
Slie is fairer than earth, and the sun is not 

fairer, the wind is not blither than she : 
From my youtii hath she sliown me the 

joy of her bays that I crossed, of her 

cliffs that I clomb. 
Till now that the twain of ns here, in 

desire of the dawn and in trust of the 

sea. 
Strike out from the sliore as the heart in 

us bids and beseeches, athirst for the 

foam. 

Friend, earth is a harbor of refuge for 
winter, a covei't w hereunder to flee 

When day is the vassal of night, and the 
strength of the hosts of her mightier 
than he ; 

But here is the presence adored of me, 
here mj'^ desire is at rest and at home. 

There are cliffs to be climbed upon land, 
there are ways to be trodden and rid- 
den : but we 

Strike out from the shore as the heart 
in us bids and beseeclies, athirst for 
the foam. 1884. 

THE SUNBOWS 

Spray of song that springs in April, light 

of love tliat laughs through May. 
Live and die and live for ever : nought 

of all things far less fair 
Keeps a surer life than these that seem 

to pass like fire away. 
In the souls thej' live which are but all 

the brighter that they were ; 
In the hearts that kindle, thinking what 

delight of old was there. 
Wind that shapes and lifts and shifts 

them bids perjietual memory play 
Over dreams and in and out of deeds 

and thouglits which seem to wear 
Light that leaps and runs and revels 

through the springing flames of spray. 

Dawn is wild upon the waters where we 
drink of dawn to-day : 



go6 



BRITISH POETS 



Wide, from wave to wave rekindling in 
rebound tlirough radiant air, 

Flash the fires unwoven and woven again 
of wind that works in plaj^, 

Working wonders more than heart may 
note or sight may wellnigh dare, 

Wefts of rarer light than colors rain 
from heaven, tliough this be rare. 

Arch on arch unbuilt in building, reared 
and ruined ray by ray, 

Breaks and brightens, laughs and les- 
sens, even till eyes may hardly bear 

Light that leaps and runs and i-evels 
through the springing flames of spray. 

Year on year sheds light and music 
rolled and flashed from bay to bay 

Roviud tlie summer capes of time and 
winter headlands keen and bare 

Whence tlie soul keeps watch, and bids 
her vassal memory watch and pray. 

If perchance the dawn may quicken, or 
perchance the midnight spare. 

Silence quells not music, darkness takes 
not sunlight in her snare ; 

Shall not joys endure that perish ? Yea, 
saith dawn, though night say nay: 

Life on life goes out, but very life en- 
kindles everywhere 

Light that leaps and runs and revels 
through the springing flames of spray. 

Friend, were life no more than this is, 

well would yet the living fare. 
All aflower and all afire and all flung 

heavenward, who shall say 
Such a flasli of life were worthless ? This 

is worth a world of care- 
Light that leaps and runs and revels 

through the springing flames of spray. 

1884. 

ON THE VERGE 

Here begins the sea that ends not till 
the world's end. Wliere we stand. 

Could we know the next high sea-mark 
set bej'ond these waves tliat gleam, 

We should know wliat never man hath 
known, nor eye of man hath scanned. 

Nought be,yond these coiling clouds that 
melt like fume of shrines that steam 

Breaks or stays the strength of waters 
till they pass our bounds of dream. 

Wliere the waste Land s End leans west- 
ward, all the seas it watches roll 

Find their border fixed beyond them, 
and a worldwide shore's control : 

These whereby we stand, no shore be- 
yond us limits : these are free. 



Gazing hence, we see tiie water that 
grows iron round the Pole, 

From the shore that hath no shore be- 
yond it set in all the sea. 

Sail on sail along the sea-line fades and 

flashes : here on land 
Flash and fade the wheeling wings on 

wings of mews that plunge and scream. 
Hour on hour along the line of life and 

time's evasive strand 
Shines and darkens, wanes and waxes, 

slays and dies : and scarce they seem 
More than motes that thronged and 

treml)led in the brief noon's breath 

and beam. 
Some with crying and wailing, some 

with notes like sound of bells that toll, 
Some with sighing and laughing, some 

with words that blessed and made us 

whole, 
Passed, and left us, and we know not 

what they were, nor what were we. 
Would we know, being mortal? Never 

breath of answering wliisper stole 
From the shore that hath no shore be- 
yond it set in all the sea. 

Shadows, would we question darkness ? 
Ere our eyes and brows be fanned 

Round with airs of twilight, washed 
with dews from sleep's eternal stream. 

Would we know sleep's guarded secret ? 
Ere the fire consume the brand. 

Would it know if yet its ashes may re- 
quicken ? yet we deem 

Suiely man may know, or ever night 
unyoke her starry team, 

What the dawn shall be, or if the dawn 
shall be not : j'ea, the scroll 

Would we read of sleep's dark scripture, 
pledge of peace or doom of dole. 

Ah, but here man's heart leaps, yearning 
toward the gloom with venturous glee. 

Though his pilot e.ye behold nor bay nor 
harbor, rock nor shoal. 

From the shore that hath no shore be- 
yond it set in all the sea. 

Friend, who knows if death indeed have 

life or life have death for goal ? 
Day nor night can tell us, nor may seas 

declare nor skies unroll 
What has been from everlasting, or if 

aught shall alvvay be. 
Silence answering only strikes response 

reverberate on the soul 
From the shore that hath no shore 

beyond it set in all the sea. 1884. 



SWINBURNE 



907 



ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED 
TO MAZZINI AT GENOA 

Italia, mother of the souls of men, 

Mother divine 
Of all that serv'd thee best with sword 
or pen, 

AH sons of thine, 

Thou knowest that here the likeness of 
the best 
Before tliee stands : 
The liead most high, the heart found 
faithfulest. 
The purest hands. 

Above the fume and foam of time that 
iiits. 

The soul, we know. 
Now sits on high wiiere Alighieri sits 

With Angelo. 

Nor his own heavenly tongue hath heav- 
enly speech 
Enough to say 
Wliat this man was, whose praise no 
thought may reach, 
No words can weigh. 

Since man's first mother brought to 
mortal birth 

Her first-born son, 
Such grace befell not ever man on earth 

As crowns this One. 

Of God nor man was ever this thing 

said : 

That he could give 

Life back to her wlio gave him, that his 

dead 

Mother might live. 

But this man found his mother dead and 
slain. 

With fast-seal'd eyes. 
And bacte the dead lise up and live again. 

And she did rise : 

And all the world was bright with her 
through liim : 
But dark with strife. 
Like heaven's own sun that storming 
clouds bedim, 
Was all his life. 

Life and the clouds are vanish'd ; hate 
and fear 

Have had their span 
Of time to hurt and are not : He is here, 

The sunlike man. 



City superb, that hadst Columbus first 

For sovereign son. 
Be prouder that thy breast hath later 
nursed 

This mightier One. 

Glory be his for ever, while his land 

Lives and is free. 
As with controlling breath and sove- 
reign hand 

He bade her be. 

Earth shows to heaven the names by 
thousands told 
That crown her fame. 
But highest of all that heaven and earth 
behold, 
Mazzini's name. 1884. 

THE INTERPRETERS 



Days dawn on us that make amends for 
many 

Sometimes, 
When heaven and earth seem sweeter 
even than any 
Man's rhymes. 

Light had not all been quenched in 
France, or quelled 

In Greece, 
Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held 

His peace. 

Had Sappho's self not left her word thus 
long 
For token. 
The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of 
song- 
Had sjioken. 



And yet these days of subtler air and 
finer 
Delight. 
When lovelier looks the darkness, and 
diviner 
The liglit— 

The gift they give of all these golden 
hours, 

Whose urn 
Pours forth reverberate ]-ays or shadow- 
ing showers 
In turn — 

Clouds, beams, and winds that make the 
live day's track 
Seem living — 



9o8 



BRITISH POETS 



What were they did no spirit give them 
back 
Thanksgiving? 



Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and 
sliadows, telling 
Time nought ; 
Man gives them sense and soul by song, 
and dwelling 
In thought. 

In human thought their being endures, 
their power 
Abides : 
Else were their life a thing that each 
light hour 
Derides. 

Tlie years live, work, sigh, smile, and 
die, with all 
Tliey cherisli ; 
The soul endures, though dreams that 
fed it fall 
And perish. 

IV 

In human thought have all things habi- 
tation ; 
Our days 
Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find 
no station 
That staj^s. 

But thought and faith are ttiightier 
things than time 
Can wrong. 
Made splendid once with speech, or made 
sublime 
By song. 

Reniembi'ance, though the tide of change 
that rolls 
Wax hoary, 
Gives earth and heaven, for song's sake 
and the soul's, 
Their glory. 1885. 

A WORD WITH THE WIND 

Lord of days and nights that hear thj' 
word of wintry warning. 
Wind whose feet are set on ways that 
none may tread. 
Change the nest wherein thy wings are 
fledged for fliglit by morning, 
Change the harbor whence at dawn 
thy sails are spread. 



Not the dawn, ere yet the imprisoning 
night has half i-eleaseil her. 
More desires the sun's full face of 
cheer, than we, 
Well as yet we love the strength of the 
iron-tongued north-easter. 
Yearn for wind to meet us as we front 
the sea. 
All th)' ways are good, O wind, and all 
the world should fester. 
Were thy fourfold godhead quenched, 
or stilled thy strife : 
Yet the waves and we desire too long 
the deep south-wester. 
Whence the waters quicken shore- 
ward, clothed with life. 
Yet the field not made for ploughing 
save of keels nor harrowing 
Save of storm-winds lies unbrigiitened 
bj- thy breath : 
Banded broad with ruddy samphire 
glow the sea-banks narrowing 
Westward, while the sea gleams chill 
and still as death. 
Sharp and strange from inland sounds 
thy bitter note of battle. 
Blown between grim skies and waters 
sullen-souled. 
Till the baffled seas bear back, rocks 
roar and shingles rattle. 
Vexed and angered and anhungered 
and acold. 
Change thy note, and give the waves 
their will, and all tlie measure. 
Full and perfect, of the music of their 
might. 
Let it fill the bays with thunderous 
notes of pleasure. 
Shake the shores with passion, sound 
at once and smite. 
Sweet are even the mild low notes of 
wind and sea, but sweeter 
Sounds the song whose chcft'al wrath 
of raging rlivme 
Bids the shelving shoals keep t»ne with 
storm's imperious metre. 
Bids the rocks and reefs respond in 
rapturous chime. 
Sweet the lisp and lulling whisper and 
luxurious laughter, [the sun 

Soft as love or sleep, of waves whereon 
Dreams, and dreams not of the darkling 
hours before nor after. 
Winged with cloud whose wrath shall 
bid love's day be done. 
Yet shall darkness bring the awakening 
sea a lordlier lover. 
Clothed with strength more amorous 
and more strenuous will, 



SWINBURNE 



909 



Whence her lieart of hearts shall kindle 
and her soul recover 
Sense of love too keen to lie for love's 
sake still. 
Let thy strong south-western music 
sound, and bid the billow^s 
Brighten, proud and glad to feel tliy 
scourge and kiss 
Sting and soothe and swaj^ them, bowed 
as aspens bend or willows, 
Yet resurgent still in breathless rage 
of bliss. 
All to-day the slow sleek ripples hardly 
bear up shore-ward, 
Charged with sighs more light than 
laughter, faint and fair, 
Like a woodland lake's weak wavelets 
lightl}'^ lingering forward, [air. 
Soft and listless as the slumber-stricken 
Be the sunshine bared or veiled, the sky 
superb or shrouded. 
Still the waters, lax and languid, 
chafed and foiled. 
Keen and thwarted, pale and patient, 
clothed with fire or clouded, 
Vex their heart in vain, or sleep like 
serpents coiled. 
Thee they look for, blind and baffled, 
wan with wrath and weary. 
Blown fori ever back by winds that 
rock the bird : 
Winds that seamews breast subdue the 
sea, and bid the dreary 
Waves be weak as hearts made sick 
with hope deferred. 
Let thy clarion sound from westward, 
let the south bear token 
How the glories of thy godhead sound 
and shine : 
Bid the land rejoice to see the land- 
wind's broad wings broken. 
Bid the sea take comfort, bid the 
world be thine. 
Half the world abhors thee beating back 
the sea, and blackening 
Heaven with fierce and woful change 
of fluctuant form : 
All the world acclaims thee shifting sail 
again, and slackening 
Cloud by cloud the close-reefed cordage 
of the storm. 
Sweeter fields and brighter woods and 
lordlier hills than waken 
Here at sunrise never hailed the sun 
and thee : 
Turn thee then, and give them comfort, 
shed like rain and shaken 
Far as foam that laughs and leaps 
along the sea. 1889. 



IN TIME OF MOURNING 

" Return," we dare not as we fain 
Would cry from hearts that yearn : 

Love dares not bid our dead again 
Return. 

O hearts that strain and burn 
As fires fast fettered burn and strain 1 
Bow down, lie still, and learn. 

Tlie heart that healed all hearts of pain 

No funeral rites inurn : 
Its echoes, while the stars remain. 

Return. May, ISSf,. 1889. 

A SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE 
DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING 

The clearest eyes in all the world they 

read 
With sense more keen and spirit of sight 

more ti'ue 
Than burns and thrills in sunrise, when 

the dew 
Flames, and absorbs the glory round it 

shed. 
As they the light of agesquickand dead, 
Closed now, forsake us : yet the shaft 

that slew 
Can slay not one of all the works we 

knew, 
Nor death discrown that many-laurelled 

head. 
The works of words whose life seems 

lightning wrought, 
And moulded of unconquerable thought, 
And quickened with imperisliable flame, 
Stand fast and shine and snaile, assured 

that nought 
May fade of all their myriad-moulded 

fame, 
Nor England's memory clasp not Brown- 
ing's name. 

Death, what hast thou to do with one 
for whom 

Time is not lord, but servant ? What 
least part 

Of all the fire tliat fed his living heart. 

Of all the light more keen than sun- 
dawn's bloom 

That lit and led his spirit, strong as doom 

And bright as hope, can aught thy 
breatli may dart 

Quencli? Nay, tliou knowest he knew 
thee what thou art, 

A shadow born of terror's barren womb, 



9IO 



BRITISH POETS 



That brings not forth save shadows. 

What art thou. 
To dream, albeit thou breathe upon his 

brow, 
That power on him is given thee, — that 

thy bi-eath 
Can make him less than love acclaims 

him now. 
And hears all time sound back the word 

it saitli ? 
What part liast thou then in his glory, 

Death ? 



But he — to him, who knows what gift is 

thine, 
Death ? Hardly may we think or hope 

when we 
Pass likewise thither wliere to-night is 

he, 
Beyond tlie irremeable outer seas that 

shine 
And darken round sucli dreams as half 

divine 
Some sunlit harbor in that starless sea 
Where gleams no ship to windward or 

to lee. 
To read with him the secret of thy shrine. 
There too, as here, may song, delight, 

and love. 
The nightingale, the sea-bird, and the 

dove, 
Fulfil with joy the splendor of the sky 
Till all beneath wax briglitas all above : 
But none of all that search the heavens, 

and try 
The sun, may match the sovereign 

eagle's eye. 

Among the wondrous ways of men and 

time 
He went as one that ever found and 

sought 
And bore in hand the lamplike spirit 

of thought 
To illume with instance of its fire sub- 
lime 
The dusk of many a cloudlike age and 

clime. 
No spirit in shape of light and darkness 

wrought. 
No faith, no fear, no dream, no rapture, 

nought 
That blooms in wisdom, nought that 

burns in crime. 
No virtue girt and armed and helmed 

with light, 
No love more lovely than the snows are 

white, 



No serpent sleeping in some dead soufs 

tomb, 
No song-bird singing from some live 

soul's height. 
But he might hear, interpret, or illume 
With sense invasive as the dawn of 

doom. 

What secret thing of splendor or of 

shade 
Surmised in all those wandering ways 

wherein 
Man, led of love and life and death and 

sin. 
Strays, climbs, or cowers, allured, ab- 
sorbed, afraid. 
Might not the strong and sunlike sense 

invade 
Of that full soul that had for aim to win 
Light, silent over time's dark toil and 

din. 
Life, at whose touch death fades as dead 

things fade ? 
O spirit of man, what mystery moves in 

thee 
That he might know not of in spirit, and 

see 
The heart within the heart that seems 

to strive. 
The life within the life that seems to be. 
And hear tlirough all thy stoi'ms that 

whirl and drive. 
The living sound of all men's souls alive ? 

He held no dream worth waking : so he 

said. 
He who stands now on death's tri- 
umphal steep. 
Awakened out of life wherein we sleep 
And dream of what he knows and sees, 

being dead. 
But never death for him was dark or 

dread : 
"Look forth" he bade the soul, and 

fear not. Weep, 
All ye that trust not in his truth, and 

keep 
Vain memory's vision of a vanished liead 
As all that lives of all that once was he 
Save that which lightens from his word : 

but we. 
Who, seeing the sunset-colored waters 

roll, 
Yet know the sun subdued not of the 

sea, 
Nor weep nor dovibt that still the spirit 

is whole. 
And life and death but shadows of tiie 

soul. Januarj', 1890. 



INDEXES 



I 



LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS 



INDEX OF POETS 



PAGE 

Ar : Arnold (1822-1888) 706 

B : Byron (1788-1824) 167 

C: Coleridge (1772-1834) 64 

CI: Clough (1819-18G1) 687 

EBB : Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( 1806-1 8G 1 ) 554 

K : Keats (1795-1821) 370 

L : Landor (1775-1864) 424 

M : Morris (1834-1890) 823 

R : ROSSETTI (1828-1882) 773 

RB: Robert Browning (1812-1S89) 565 

So: ScOTT (1771-1832) 104 

Sli : Shelley (1792-1822) ' 273 

S\v: Swinburne (1837 ) 865 

T : Tennyson (1809-1892) 459 

W: Wordsworth (1770-1850) 1 



912 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Ablett, To Joseph, L 438 

Abt Vogler, RB 657 

Aeon and Rhodope, L 450 

Adam, Lilith and Eve, RB 680 

Adonais, Sh 358 

Aeschylos and Sophocles, L 454 

Affliction of Margaret, The, W 43 

After dark vapors have oppressed our 

plains, K 380 
After-thought, W 57 
Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, L 445 
Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, The shades of, 

L 433 
Age, To, L 455 
Aged man who loved to doze away. An, L 

458 
Aglae, Little, L 437 
Agnes and the hill-man, M 863 
Ah ! yet consider it again, CI 700 
Ailsa Rock, To, K 389 

A king lived long ago (Pippa passes), RB 586 
Alas, how soon the hours are over, L 443 
Alastor, Sh 276 
Allen-a-dale, Sc 161 
All is well, CI 705 
All service ranks the same with God (Pippa 

passes ), RB 572 
Alteram partem, CI 694 
America, To Walt Whitman in, Sw 886 
Among the rocks (James Lee's wife), RB 657 
Amours de voyage, From, CI 691 
Amphibian (Fifine at the fair) RB 671 
Ancient mariner, Rime of the, C 73 
Andrea del Sarto, RB 650 
And thou art dead, as young and fair, B 171 
Another way of love, RB 629 
Any wife to any husband, RB 626 
Apology, An (Earthly paradise), M 842 
Appeal, An, Sw 881 
Appearances, RB 674 
April, 1814. Stanzas, Sh 275 
Arethusa, Sh 346 
Artemidora, The death of, L 436 
Arthur, Passing of, T 481 
Ask me no more, T 498 
Ask not one least word of praise (Ferish- 

tah's fancies), RB 682 
Asolando, Epilogue to, RB 686 

58 



Aspecta medusa, R 786 

As through the land at eve we went, T 498 

Atalanta iii Calydon, choruses from, Sw 866 

Atalanta's race, M 843 

At the sunrise in 1848, R 778 

At the grave of Burns, W 36 

A toccata of Galuppi's, RB 621 

August (Earthly paradise), M 855 

Augusta, Epistle to, B 210 

Augusta, Stanzas to, B 209 

Austerity of poetry, Ar 761 

Autumnal evening, Lines on an, C 66 

Autumn song, R 776 

Autumn, To, K 409 

Ave atque vale, Frater, T 550 

Ave Maria (Don Juan), B 251 

Aylmer, Rose, L 428 

Bacchanalia ; or, the new age, Ar 764 

Balder dead (III), Ar 745 

Ballad of burdens. A, Sw 875 

Ballad of dreamland, Sw 890 

Ballad of Frangois Villon, Sw 891 

Ballad of the dark ladie. The, C 92 

Bards of passion and of mirth, K 406 

Barren spring, R 805 

Battle of Waterloo, B 192 

Beauty's pageant, R 805 

Before the beginning of years (Atalanta in 

Calydon), Sw 867 
Belle dame sans merci. La, K 422 
Bethesda (A sequel), CI 691 
Better part. The, Ar 762 
Between the sunset and the sea (Chas- 

telard), Sw 872 
Birds in the high hall garden (Maud), T 

519 
Birth-bond, The, R 796 
Bishop orders his tomb in St. Praxed's 

church. The, RB 609 
Blake, William, R 811 
Blank misgivings, CI 688 
Blessed damozel,' The, R 774 
Blot in the scutcheon, Song from, RB 602 
Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with 

May (Coming of Arthur), T 540 
Blue closet, The, M 835 
Et)Ccaccio, The garden of, C 102 



9^3 



914 



BRITISH POETS 



Body's beauty, R 805 

Boimy Dundee, Sc 165 

Boot and saddle, RB 593 

Border ballad, Sc 165 

Break, break, break, T 417 

Bridal birth, R 793 

Bride of Abydos, The, B 172 

Bright star ! would I were steadfast as 

thou art, K 423 
Brignall Banks, Sc 161 
Brook, The, T 518 
Browning, Sonnets on the death of Robert, 

Sw90t» 
Browning, to Robert, L 443 
Buonaparte, I grieved for, W 30 
Buonaparte, Ode to Napoleon, B 184 
Burden of Nineveh, The, R 683 
Burdens, Ballad of, Sw 875 
Burghers' battle, The, M 862 
Buried life, The, Ar 723 
Burns, At the grave of, W 36 
Burns, On, R 811 
By the sea-side, Composed, W 31 

Cadyow Castle, Sc 108 

Calais, Composed by the sea-side near, W 

31 
Callicles'.song, Ar 719 
Card-dealer, The, R 777 
Carlyle and George Eliot, On the deaths 

of, Sw 899 
Castled crag of Drachenfels, The, B 196 
Cauteretz, In the valley of, T 539 
Cavalier song, Sc 163 
Cavalier tunes, RB 592 
Celandine, To the small (two poems), W 27 
Chamouni, In the vale of, C 96 
Chapel in Lyoness, M 826 
Chapman's Homer, On first looking into, 

K373 
Character of the happy warrior, W 47 
Charge of the Heavy Brigade, Epilogue to 

the, T 550 
Charge of the Light Brigade, The, T 518 
Chastelard, Songs from, Sw 871 
Chatterton, Thomas, R 811 
Chaucer, Invocation to (Life and death of 

Jason), M 842 
Chaucer (On a country road), Sw 903 
Child and Poet, Sw 900 
Child of a day, thou knowest not, L 430 
Childe Harold, Canto III, B 189 
Childe Harold, Canto IV, B 234 [641 

Childe Roland to the dark tower came, RB 
Child's future. A, Sw 901. 
Children, Sw 900 
Child's laughter. A, Sw 900 
Child's song, Sw 892 
Chillon, The prisoner of, B 206 
Chillon, Sonnet on, B 206 
Chimes, R 809 
Choice, The, R 803 
Choric song (Lotos-eaters), T 473 
Choruses from Atalanta, Sw 866 
Choruses from Hellas, Sh 366, 367 
Christabel, C 81 



Chrvsolites and rubies Bacchus brings, 

The. L 455 
Circassian love-chant (Levvti), C 68 
Claribel, T 461 
Clarion, Sc 163 
Cleone to Aspasia, L 4,37 
Cliffside path, The. Sw 904 
Cliffs, On the, Sw 892 
Cloud, The, Sh 343 
Cloud confines. The, R 808 
Coleridge, S. T., R 812 
Coleridge, To, Sh 275 
Coliseum, The (Manfred), B 231 
Coliseum, The (Childe Harold), B 237 
Come back, come back ( Songs in absence), 

CI 700 
Come home, come home (Songs in absence), 

CI 700 
Come into the garden, Maud (Maud), T 521 
Come not when I am dead, T 514 
Come poet, come, CI 704 
Coming of Arthur, Songs from the, T 540 
Coming of Dian, The (Endymion), K 383 
Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 

Lines, W 9 
Composed by the sea-side, near Calais, W 31 
Composed upon an evening of extraor- 
dinary splendor, W 55 
Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 

3, 1802, W 31 
Confessions, RB 666 
Consider it again, CI 700 
Cor cordium, Sw 888 
Corinna to Tanagra, from Athens, L 436 
Coronach, Sc 160 
County Guv, Sc 165 
Cristina, RB 594 
Crossing the bar, T 553 
Cuckoo, To the, W 42 
Cupid and Psyche, Song from the story 

of, M 854 
Currente calamo (Marl magno) CI 703 
Cyclamen, To a, L 442 

Daffodils, W 43 

Daisy, To the (Three poems), "W 34, 35 

Dark glass. The, R 798 

Dark ladie. Ballad of the, C 92 

Darknes?, B 212 

Dark wood. The, M 857 

Day is coming, The, M 860 

Day of days. The, M 861 

Day of love. The (Love is enough) : M 8.58 

Day returns, my natal day. The, L 443 

Days that were. The, (House of the Wolf- 

ings) M 861 
Death-in-love, R 799 
Death of Artemidora, The, L 436 
Death of James Hogg, Extempore effusion 

upon the, W 61 
Death of Meleager (Atalanta in Calydon), 

Sw 869 
Death of Southey, On the, L 456 
Death, On Southev's, L 457 
Death of the Duke of Wellington, Ode on 

the, T 514 



INDEX OF TITLES 



9^5 



k 



Deaths of Thomas Caiiyle and George 

Eliot, On the, Sw 899 
Death, Sonnets on the thought of, CI 705 
Death stands above me, L 456 
Dedication ( Don Juan ), B 240 
Dedication (Poems and ballads, first series), 

Sw 879 
Dedication (Ring and the Book) RB 668 
Dedication, A, T 539 
Dedication of the Revolt of Islam, (To 

Mary ) Sh 291 

Defence of Guenevere, The, M 828 

Defence of Lucknow, The, T 546 

De gustibus, RB 626 

Dejection, an ode, C 94 

Dejection, Stanzas written in, near Naples, 

Sh 296 
Destruction of Sennacherib, The, B 187 
Development, RB 684 
Dian, The coming of (Endymion), K 383 
Dian, The feast of (Endymion), K 387 
Dipsychus, From, CI 694 
Dirce, L 437 
Dirge, A, Sh 369 
Donald Dhu, Pibroch of, Sc 163 
Don Juan, B 240 
Dora, T 484 
Dover beach, Ar 763 
Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? 

L441 
Drachenfels, The castled crag of, B 196 
Dramatis personee, Epilogue to, RB 668 
Dreamland, Ballad of, Sw 8i)0 
Dream of fair women, A, T 474 
Duchess, My last, RB 595 
Duke of Wellington, Ode on the death of, 

T514 
Duty, Ode to, W 44 

Eagle, The, T 514 

Earthly Paradise, Fi-om the, M 842 

Earth's immortalities, RB 605 

East and west, Ar 762 

Easter day, Naples, 1849, CI 696 

Easter day, II, CI 697 

East London, Ar 761 

Echetlos, RB 679 

Echo song (Prometheus unbound), Sh 314 

Effusion upon the death of James Hogg, 
Extempore, W 61 

Elaine's song (Lancelot and Elaine), T 525 

Elegiac stanzas, W 45 

Elgin marbles. On seeing the, K 380 

Empedocles, Lyric stanzas of, Ar 715 

Endymion, Prom, K 381 

England, An appeal to, Sw 881 

England and America in 1782, T 542 

England in 1819, Sonnet, Sh 297 

Enid's song (Marriage of Geraint), T 524 

En route (Amours de voyage), CI 691 

Envoi (Amours de vovage), CI 693 

Envoi (Earthly paradise"), M 856 

Epilogue to Asolando, RB 686 

Epilogue to the charge of the Heavy Brig- 
ade, T 550 

Epilogue to Dramatic Idyls, RB 680 

58 



Epilogue to Dramatis Personse, RB 668 
Epilogue (Fifine at the fair), RB 671 
Epilogue to the Pacchiarotto volume, RB 

674 
Epilogue (Two poets of Croisic), RB 678 
Epipsychidion, Sh 348 
Epistle to Augusta, B 210 
Epitaph at Fiesole, For an, L 432 
Equal troth, R 798 
Error and loss, M 857 
Etude realiste, Sw 901 
Euganean Hills, Lines written among the, 

Sh 293 
Evelyn Hope, RB 618 
Evening ode, W 55 
Eve of Crecy, The, M 834 
Eve of St. Agnes, The, K 398 
Eve of St. John, The, Sc 108 
Eve of St. Mark, The, K 404 
Expostulation and reply, W 8 
Extempore effusion upon the death of 

James Hogg, W 61 
Extinction of the Venetian republic. On 

the, W 31 

Face, A, RB 6(i7 

Faded violet. On a, Sh 293 

Fame (Earth's immortalities), RB 605 

Fame, On, K 423 

Fancy, K 390 

Fare-thee-well, B 188 

Farewell, A, T 494 

Farewell to Italy, L 440 

Farewell to the glen, R 806 

Far, far awav, T 553 

Fate (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 869 

Fears and scruples, RB 673 

Feast of Dian, K 387 

Ferishtah's fancies. Songs from, RB 681 

Fiesolan idyl, L 431 

Fiesole, For an epitaph at, L 432 

Fiflne at the fair, RB 671 

Final chorus (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 871 

Final chorus ( Hellas j, Sh 367 

Final chorus (Love is enough), M 859 

Fire is in the flint (Ferishtah's fancies), RB 

681 
First love remembered, R 787 
Firwood, A young, R 779 
Five English poets, R 811 
Flower, The, T 539 
Flower in the crannied wall, T 541 
For an epitaph at Fiesole, L 432 
For a Venetian pastoral, R 779 
Forsaken garden, The, Sw 889 
Forsaken merman. The, Ar 708 
Fountain, The, W 17 
Fra Lippo Lippi, RB 644 
France, an ode, C 88 
Francois Villon, Ballad of, Sw 891 
Frater ave atque. vale, T 550 
French revolution, W 46 
From Amours de voyage, CI 691 
From Dipsychus, CI 694 
From Endymion, K 381 
From Mater triumphalis, Sw 887 



9i6 



BRITISH POETS 



From Switzerland, Ar 756 

From the Coming- of Arthur, T 540 

From the Earthly Paradise, M 842 

From the Life and Death of Jason, M 839 

From the Ring and the Book, RB 668 

Frost at midnight, C 90 

Future, The, Ar T^i 

Galahad, Sir, T 493 

Garden by the sea, A (Nymph's song to 

Hylas), M 839, 
Garden of Boccaccio, The, C 102 
Garden of Proserpine, The, Sw 877 
Gebir, L 425 
Genius in beauty, R 796 
Gentleman, To a (William Wordsworth), 

C99 
George Eliot and Thomas Carlyle, On the 

deaths of, Sw 899 
Gilliflower of gold, The, M 832 
Give a rouse, RB 593 
Give her but the least excuse to love me 

(Pippa passes), RB 582 
Give me the eyes tliat look on mine, L 442 
Gleam, Merlin and the, T 551 
Godiva, T, 492 
Gold-hair ( Rapunzel), M 827 
Go not, happy day, (Maud), T 520 
Grammarian's Funeral, A, RB 635 
Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas from the, Ar 

754 
Grasshopper and cricket. On the, K 374 
Grave of Burns, At the, W 36 
Great men have been among us, W 33 
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning, 

K 373 
Grecian urn. Ode on a, K 407 
Green fields of England, CI 700 
Green linnet. The. W 35 
Growing old, Ar 763 
Guardian angel. The, RB 631 
Guenevere, The defence of, M 828 
Guernsey, In, Sw 901 
Guinevere, T 525 

Haidee (Don Juan), B 244 

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances. 

So 159 
Hamadryad, The, L 446 
Hands (Rapunzel), M 827 
Hands all round, T 517 [543 

Hapless doom of woman (Queen Mary), T 
Happy -warrior. Character of, W 47 
Harp of the north, farewell, Sc 160 
Hartley Coleridge, To, W 33 
Hast thou seen with flash incessant, W 55 
Haydon, To B. R., W 55 
Haystack in the floods. The, M 836 
Heap cassia, sandal buds (Paracelsus), RB 

568 
Plealth to King Charles, Here's a, Sc 166 
Heart of the night. The, R 802 
Heart's compass, R 797 
Heart's hope, R 794 
Heine (from Heine's grave), Ar 768 
Hellas, Choruses from, Sh 366, 367 



Hellas, Song from, Sh 367 

Hellenics, On the, L 444 

Here pause, the poet claims at least this 

praise, W 51 
Here's a health to King Charles, Sc 166 
Her gifts, R 798 

Her heaven (True woman), R 801 
Her love (True woman), R 801 
Herself (True woman). R 801 
Hertha. Sw 882 
Herve Riel, RB 669 
Hesperus, Sappho to, L 437 
Hidden love. The, CI 704 
Hie awav, hie away, Sc 162 
Hiiiher Pantheism, The, T 540 
Highland girl. To a, W 37 
Hill summit. The, R 803 
His own Iphigeneiaand Agamemnon, On, L 

440 
Hoarded joy, R 805 
Hogg, Extempore efifusion on the death of 

James, W 61 
Homer, On first looking into Chapman's, K 

373 
Homer, To, K 389 

Home thoughts from abroad, RB 605 
Home thoughts from the sea, RB 605 
Home they brought her warrior dead (The 

Princess), T 498 
Honeysuckle, The, R 788 
Hope and fear, Sw 899 
Hope evermore and believe, CI 698 
Hounds of Spring, The (Atalantain Caly- 

don), Sw 
House, RB 672 
Householder, The, (Fifine at the Fair), 

RB671 
House of Life, R 793 
House of the Wolfings, Motto of, M 861 
How many bards gild the lapses of time, K 

373 
How many voices gaily sing, L 443 
How they brought the good news from 

Ghent to Aix, RB 603 
Human seasons. The, K 389 
Hunting song, Sc 113 
Husbandman, The, R 804 
Hymn before sunrise in the vale of Cha- 

mouni, C 96 
Hymn of Pan, Sh 346 
Hymn to intellectual beauty, Sh 287 
Hymn to Pan (Endymion), K 382 
Hymn to Proserpine, Sw 872 
Hyperion, K 410 

lanthe. Lyrics to, L 430, 441 

lanthe, you are called to cross the sea, L 

431 
Iceland first seen, M 863 
I fear thy kisses, Sh 345 
If this great world of joy and pain, W 61 
If thou indeed derive thy light from heaven, 

W61 
I grieved for Buonaparte, W 30 
I have led her home (Maud), T 520 
I have seen higher, holier things, CI 688 



INDEX OF TITLES 



917 



I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, L 431 

I know not whether I am proud, L 443 

Imitation of Spenser, K 372 

Immortality, Ar 762 

Impromptus, B 270 

In a drear-nighted December, K 389 

In a gondola, RB 596 

In a lecture-room, CI 68S 

In a London square, CI 705 

Incident of the French camp, RB 594 

Inconstancy, L 450 

Indian serenade, Sh 299 

Indolence, Ode on, K 405 

Influence of natural objects, W 13 

In Guernsey, Sw 901 

In memoriam, T 409 

In memory of the author of Obermann, 

Stanzas, Ar 725 
In memory of Walter Savage Landor, Sw 876 
In prison, M 839 
Inside of King's College chapel, Cambridge, 

W 57 
Insomnia, R 809 

Intellectual beauty, Hymn to, Sh 287 
Interpreters, The, Sw 907 
In the depths, CI 694 
In the vale of Chamouni, C 96 
In the valley of Cauteretz, T 539 
In the water, Sw 905 

In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, M 855 
In three days, RB 631 
Intimations of immortality, W 39 
In time of mourning, Sw 909 
In time of order, A song, Sw 866 
Introduction to the Earthly Paradise, M 842 
Invasion, The (Gebir), L 425 
Invocation to Chaucer (Life and Death of 

Jason), M 842 
Invocation to the power of love (Endy- 

mion ), K 385 
Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, On his own, 

L440 
Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, L 445 
Iphigeneia, The shades of Agamemnon and, 

L433 
Isabella, K391 

Is it not better at an early hour, L 443 
Isles of Greece, The (Dori Juan), B 249 
Isolation, To Marguerite, Ar 756 
Italian in England, The, RB 606 
Italy, Farewell to, L 440 
Ite domum saturae, venit Hesperus, CI 702 
It is a beauteous evening, W 31 
It is not to be thought of, W 33 
I travelled among unknown men, W 15 
I wandered lonely as a cloud, W 43 
I wonder not that youth remains, L 455 

James Hogg, Extempore effusion upon the 

death of, W 61 
James Lee's wife, RB 657 
Jason, The life and death of, M 839 
Jock o' Hazeldean, Sc 162 
John Bull, B 271 
Joseph Ablett, To, L 438 
June (Earthly Paradise), M 854 



Kate the queen (Pippa passes), RB 582 

Keats, R 812 

Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and 

there, K 373 
Kensington Gardens, Lines written in, Ar 

724 
King Charles, Here's a health to, Sc 166 
King's College Chapel, Cambridge, W 57 
King's Tragedy, The, R 812 
Known in vain, R 802 
Kossuth, To Louis, Sw 891 
Kubla Khan, C 72 

La belle dame sans merci, K 432 

Labuntur anni (Don Juan), B242 

Lachin y Gair, B 170 ' 

Lady of Shalott. The, T 462 

La Fayette, C 69 

Lake Leman, Sonnet to, B 214 

Lamb, To Marv, L 440 

Lament, A, Sh 358 

Lancelot and Elaine, Song from, T 525 

Landmark, The, R802 

Landor, In memory of Walter Savage, Sw 

876 
Laodamia, W 51 
La Saisiaz, Prologue, RB 677 
Last duchess, Mv, RB 595 
Last ride together. The, RB 634 
Last sonnet, Keats', K 423 
Late, late, so late (Guinevere), T 525 
Lately our songsters loitered in green 

lanes, L 457 
Latest decalogue. The, CI 694 
Lecture-room, In a, CI 688 
Leech-gatherer, The, W 28 
Left upon a seat in a yew-tree. Lines, W 4 
Leigh Hunt, Esq., To, K 380 
Leman, Sonnet to Lake, B 214 
Lenore, Sc 105 

L'Envoi (Earthly paradise), M 856 
Lewti, C 68 
Life, C 66 
Life, Sc 165 

Life and death of Jason, From the, M 839 
Life in a love, RB 630 
Life is struggle, CI 705 
Life may change, but it mayfly not, Sh366 
Life of life (Prometheus unbound). Sh 320 
Life of man ( Atalanta in Calvdon), Sw 867 
Life the beloved, R 807 
Light Brigade, The charge of the, T 518 
Light woman, A, RB 633 
Lilith, R 805 

Lime-tree bower my prison, This, C 70 
Lines composed a few miles above Tintern 

Abbey, W 9 
Lines left upon a seat in a yew-tree, W 4 
Lines on an autumnal evening, C 66 
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, K 390 
Lines, When the lamp is shattered, Sh 369 
Lines written among the Euganean HilLs, 

Sh 293 
Lines written in early spring, W 7 
Lines written in Kensington Gardens, Ar 

724 



9ii 



BRITISH POETS 



Lines written in the album at Elbingerode, 

C93 
Lippo Lippi, Fra, RB 644 
Little Aglae, L 487 
Little while, A, R 788 
Lochinvar, Young, Sc 141 
Loch na Garr, B 170 
Locksley Hall, T 488 
London, W 33 
London literature and society (Don Juan), 

B353 
London square, In a, CI 705 
Lost days, R 806 
Lost Leader, The, RB 603 
Lost on both sides, R 806 
Lotos-eaters, The, T 472 
Louis Kossuth, To, Sw 891 
Love, C91 

Love (Earth's immortalities) RB 605 
Love among the ruins, RB 618 
Love and Love's Mates (Atalanta in Caly- 

don) Sw 868 
Love at ebb (Chastelard), Sw 872 
Love at sea, Sw 878 
Love enthroned, R 793 
Love in a life, RB 680 
Love, Invocation to the power of, (Endy- 

mion ), K 885 
Love is enough, From, M 858 
Love-letter, The, R 795 
Love-lilv, R 792 
Lover's walk. The, R 795 
Lovesight, R 794 
Love's last gift, R 801 
Love's lovers, R 794 
Love's nocturn, R 786 
Loves of Tamar and the sea-nymph. The, 

L426 
Love's philosophy, Sh 299 
Love-sweetness, R 797 
Love's testament, R 793 
Love thou thy land, T 480 
Low, lute, low (Queen Mary), T 543 
Lucknow, The defence of, T 546 
Lucretia Borgia's hair, On, L 438 
Lucy, W 14, 15 
Lucy Grav, W 18 
Lyrics from Maud, T 519 
Lyrics from Queen Mary, T 543 
Lyrics from the coming of Arthur, T 540 
Lyrics from the Princess, T 497 
Lyric stanzas of Empedocles, Ar 715 
Lyrics, to lanthe, L 430, 441 

Magical nature, RB 674 

Maid of Athens, B 170 

Maid of Neidpath, Sc 108 

Maid's Lament, The, L 433 

Maisie, Proud, Sc 164 

Manfred, B 214 

Marching along, RB 592 

Margaret, The affliction of, W 43 

Marguerite (Isolation), Ar 756 

Marguerite, To (continued), Ar 757 

Marmion, Sc 114 

Marriage of Geraint, Song from, T 524 



Mary , To (Revolt of Islam), Sh 291 

Mary Beaton's song (Chastelard), Sw 871 

Mary Lamb, To, L 440 

Mary Magdalene at the door of Simon the 

Pharisee, R 785 
Mary's girlhood, R 778 
Mary Stuart, Song from, Sw 899 
Match, A, Sw 874 
Mater triumphalis. From, Sw 887 
Matthew, W 16 
Maud, Lyrics from, T 519 
Mazzini, On the monument to, Sw 907 
Medusa, Aspecta, R 786 
Meeting at night, RB 605 
Meeting of Gebir and Charoba, The, L 426 
Melancholy, Ode on, K 409 
Meleager. Death of (Atalanta in Calydon), 

Sw 869 
Memorabilia, RB 632 
Memorial thresholds, R 805 
Memorial verses, Ar 713 
Memory, W 58 
Memory of Walter Savage Landor, In, Sw 

876 
Menelaus and Helen at Troy, L 452 
Merlin and the gleam, T 551 
Merlin and Vivien, Song from, T 524 
Merlin's riddle (Coming of Arthur), T 540 
Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, K 390 
Michael, W 19 
Michelangelo's kiss, R 807 
Mid-rapture, R 797 
Mild is the parting year, L 431 
Milkmaid's song (Queen Mary), T 543 
Miller's daughter. The, T 463 
Milton, T 536 
Mirror, The, R 779 
Misconceptions, RB 629 
Misgivings, Blank, CI 688 
Mont Blanc, C 96 
Mont Blanc, B 215 
Mont Blanc, Sh 288 
Montenegro. T 543 
Montorio's Height, On, CI 692 
Moore, To Thomas, B 2:34, 271 
Moralitv, Ar 721 
Morte d' Arthur, T 481 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes, W 61 
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel, L 440 
Mountain echo. Yes it was the, W 48 
Muckle-mouth Meg, RB 683 
Muse of the north, The, M 864 
Music, On, L 455 

Music, when soft voices die, Sh 358 
Mutability, W 55 
Mutability, Sh 358 

My heart leaps up when I behold, W 26 
My hopes retire, L 443 
My last duchess, RB 595 
My Murray, B 270, 271 
My sister's sleep, R 774 
My star, RB 626 

Napoleon Buonaparte, Ode to, B 184 

Natural magic, RB 674 

Nature (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 868 



INDEX OF TITLES 



919 



Nay, but you who do not love her, RB (305 

Near Avalori, M 838 

Near Dover, W 32 

Neidpath, The maid of, Sc 113 

Never the time and the place, RB 081 

New age. The (Bacchanalia), Ar 764 

Newborn death, R 807 

New Sinai, The, CI 689 

Night, To, Sh 357 

Night and morning, RB 605 

Nightingale, Ode to a, K 408 

Night-piece, A, W 5 

No master, M 860 

No more, no more (Don Juan), B 243 

No, my own love of other years, L 441 

"Nou'dolet" Sw889 

Northern farmer (old style), T 538 

Northern farmer (new style), T 541 

Not as these, R 804 

November, 1806, W 50 

November, 1, W 55 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 

room, W 48 
Nutting, W 13 
Nymph's song to Hvlas, The (Life and 

Death of Jason), M 839 

Oak, The, T 553 

Obermann, Stanzas in memory of the 
author of, Ar 725 

Obermaim once more, Ar 768 

O bitter sea ( Life and Death of Jason) M 839 

Oblation, The, Sw 889 

Ocean, The (Childe Harold), B 239 

Octogenarian, To an, W 63 

Ode (Bards of passion), K406 

Ode composed upon a!i evening of extra- 
ordinary splendor, W 5^ 

Ode, Dejection, An, C94 

Ode, France, An, C 88 

Ode, Intimations of immortality, W 39 

Ode on a Crrecian urn, K 407 

Ode on indolence, K 405 

Ode on melancholy, K 409 

Ode on the death of the Duke of Welling- 
ton, T 514 

Ode to a nightingale, K 408 

Ode to duty, W 44 

Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, B 184 

Ode to Psyche, K 406 

Ode to tranquility, C 94 

Ode to the west wind, Sh 297 

Oenone, T 464 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, T 479 

Of such is the kingdom of heaven, Sw 900 

Ogier the Dane, Song from, M 855 [186 

Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom : B 

Oh that 'twere possible (Maud), T 523 

Old and new art, R 804 

Old pictures in Florence, RB 622 

O, let the solid ground (Maud), T 519 

On a country road, Sw 903 

On a faded violet, Sh 293 

On a Grecian urn. Ode, K407 

On an autumnal evening. Lines, C 66 

On a picture of Leander, K 380 



On a poet's lips I slept, Sh 310 

On Burns, R 811 

One hope. The, R 808 

One way of love, RB 629 

One word is too often profaned, Sh 368 

One word more, RB 654 

One year ago my path was green, L 441 

On Fame, K 423 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer, K 

873 
On his own Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, 

L440 
On his seventy-fifth birthday, L 456 
On Lucretia Borgia's hair, L 438 
On melancholy. Ode, K 409 
On Montorio's Height, CI 692 
On music, L 455 

On refusal of aid between nations, R 778 
On seeing the Elgin marbles, K 380 
On Southey's death, L 457 
On the cliffs, Sw 892 
On the death of Robert Browning, Sonnets, 

Sw 909 
On the death of Southey, L 456 
On the deaths of Thomas Carlyle and 

George Eliot, Sw 899 
On the extinction of the Venetian republic, 

W31 
On the grasshopper and cricket, K 374 
On the Hellenics, L 444 
On the Mermaid Tavern, Lines, K 390 
On the monument erected to Mazzini at 

Genoa, Sw 907 
On the sea, K 380 
On the smooth brow and clustering hair, L 

443 
On the verge, Sw [906 
On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year, 

B 272 
Orpheus and the Sirens, Songs of (Life and 

death of Jason), M 840 
Orpheus' song of triumph (Life and death 

of Jason) M840 
O ship, ship, ship, CI 702 
Osorio, Song from, C 73 
O swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, T 

498 
O that 'twere possible (Maud), T 523 
Our gaieties, our luxuries, CI 695 
Overhead the tree-tops meet (Pippa passes), 

RB 591 
Over the sea our galleys went (Paracelsus), 

RB 568 
Ozymandias, Sh 293 

Pacchiarotto volume, Epilogue to the, RB 

674 
Pains of sleep. The, C 98 
Palace of Art, The, T 468 
Palladiiuu, Ar 765 
Pan, Hymn of, Sh 346 
Pan, Hymn to (Endymion), K 382 
Pantheon, The, CI 692 
Paracelsus, Songs from, RB 568 
Parting at morning, RB 605 
Passion and worship, R 794 



920 



BRITISH POETS 



Past ruin'd Illion Helen lives, L 431 

Patriot, The, RB 633 

Pearl, A girl. A, RB 683 

Peele Castle, W 45 

Penumbra, R 780 

Perche pensa ? Pensando s'invecchia, CI 

704 
Personal talk, W 49 
Pescliiera, CI 693 
Phantom or fact, C 103 
Philomela, Ar 741 
Pibroch of Donald Dhu, Sc 163 
Pictor ignotus, RB 606 
Pied piper of Hamelin, The, RB 598 
Pilgrims, The, Sw 884 
Pippa passes, RB 570 
Pis-aller, Ar 764 

Pleasvire ! why thus desert the heart, L 431 
Plighted promise, R 788 
Poet! he hath put his heart to school. A, 

W62 
Poet, The, T 461 

Poetical commandments (Don Juan), B 242 
Poetics, RB 683 
Poet's epitaph. A, W 15 
Poet's song. The, T 497 
Political greatness. Sonnet, Sh 358 
Popularity, RB 632 
Porphyria's lover, RB 569 
Portrait, The, R 776 
Portrait, The (House of Life), R 794 
Pot of basil. The, K 391 
Pray but one prayer for me, M 827 
Prelude to the Earthly Paradise, M 842 
Pride of youth, R 797 
Prinu-ose of the rock. The, W 59 
Princess, Lyrics from the, T 497 
Prisoner of Chillon, B 206 
Proem (Endvniion), K 381 
Prologue (FJfine at the fair), RB 677 
Prologue (Ija Saisiaz), RB 677 
Prologue (Two poets of Croisic), RB 677 
Prometheus, B 213 
Prometheus unbound, Sh 299 
Proserpine, Hymn to, Sw 872 
Pi'oserpine, The garden of, Sw 877 
Prospice, RB 667 
Proud Maisie, Sc 164 
Proud word you never spoke, L 443 
Psyche, Ode to, K 406 
Psyche, Song from the story of Cupid and, 

M854 

Qua cursum ventus, CI 688 
Quatrains, L 443 
Queen Mary, Lyrics from, T 543 
Queen's song, The (Chastelard), Sw 872 
Question, The, Sh 347 
Questioning spirit. The, CI 690 
Quiet work, Ar 708 
Qui laborat, orat, CI 698 

Rabbi ben Ezra, RB 659 

Rain, rain and sun (Coming of Arthur), T 

540 
Rapunzel, Songs from, M 827 



Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Sh 347 
Real question. The, CI 693 
Rebecca's hymn, Sc 164 
Reflections on having left a place of retire- 
ment, C 69 
Refusal of aid between nations, On, R 778 
Regeneration, L 429 
Remain, ah not in youth alone, L 442 
Requiescat, Ar 727 
Resolution and independence, W 28 
Respectability, RB 630 
Retro me, Sathana, R 806 
Revenge, The, T543 
Reverie of poor Susan, The, W 5 
Revolt of Islam, Dedication of, Sh 291 
Riding together, M 825 
Rime of the ancient mariner, C 73 
Ring and the book. From the, RB 668 
Ring out wild bells (In memoriam), T 510 
Rivulet crossing my ground (Maud), T 521 
Rizpah, T 548 

Robert Browning, To, L 443 
Robert Browning, Sonnets on the death of, 

Sw 909 
Robin Hood, K 388 
Rome fChilde Harold), B 236 
Rome, CI 692 
Rondel, Sw 876 
Rose Aylmer, L 428 
Rose Aylmer's hair, given by her sister, 

L456 
Rosnv, RB 682 
Roundel, The, Sw 902 
Roundelay (Endymion), K 386 
Round us the wild creatures (Ferishtah's 

fancies), RB 681 
Rudel to the lady of Tripoli, RB 602 
Rugby Chapel, Ar 706 

Sailing of the sword. The, M 834 

Sailor boy. The, T 536 

Saint Agnes' eve, T 479 

Saint Agnes', The eve of, K 398 

Saint John, The eve of, Sc 108 

Saint Luke the painter, R 804 

Saint Mark, The eve of, K 404 

Salt of the Earth, the, Sw 900 

Same flower. To the (celandine), W 27 

Same flower. To the (daisy), W 35 

Sapphics, Sw 878 

Sappho (On the cliffs), Sw 892 

Sappho to Hesperus, L 437 

Saul, RB 611 

Saul before his last battle, Song of, B 197 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, CI 

695 
Sceptic moods, CI 693 
Scholar gipsy. The, Ar 741 
Scorn not the sonnet, W 58 
Seaboard, The, Sw 903 
Sea, On the, K 386 

Sea, To the (Life and death of Jason), M 839 
Sea-limits, The, R 779 
Sea-shell, The(Gebir), L 427 
Seasons, The, M 857 
Second best, The, Ar 714 



I 



INDEX OF TITLES 



921 



See what a lovely shell (Maud), T 522 

Self-deception, Ar 714 

Self-dependence, Ar 721 

Sensitive plant. The, Sh 338 

September, 18Ut, W 55 

Sequence of Sonnets on the death of Robei-t 

Browning, Sw 909 
Serenade, Indian, Sh299 
Seventy-fifth birthday, On his, L 456 
Severed selves, R 799 
Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, L 

433 
Shakespeare, Ar 708 
Shakespeare, William, Sw 899 
Shakespeare and Milton, L 454 
Shameful death, M 833 
Shame upon you Robin (Queen Mary), T 

543 
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, W 

14 
Shelley, R 812 

Shelley (Cor cordium), Sw 888 
She walks in beauty, B 186 
She was a phantom of delight, "W 42 
Shipwreck, The (Don Juan), B 243 
Sibylla palmifera, R 804 
Silent noon, R 796 
Simon Lee, W 6 
Simplon Pass, The, W 12 
Hliiy-ing lesson, A, Sw 902 
Sir (ialahad, T 493 
Sir Giles' war-song, M 838 
Sister Helen, R 780 
Sisters, The, T 467 
Sister's sleep, My, R 774 
Sisters, Song from the, T 549 
Skylark, To^a, W 45 
Skylark, To a, W 58 
Skylark, To a, Sh 344 
Sleep, To, W 50 
Sleep, To, K 423 
Sleep and poetry, K 374 
Slumber did my spirit seal, A, W 15 
Small celandine, To the, W 27 
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, "VV 62 
Sohrab and Rustum, Ar 728 
Soldier rest, thy warfare o'er. So 159 
Solitary reaper, The, W 38 
Solitude, W 18 
Solitude, A, Sw 902 
Solitude, To, K 372 
Some future day, CI 701 
Song, Sh 347 
Song, Child's, Sw 892 
Song, Mary Beaton's (Chastelard), Sw 871 
Song, Nay, but you who do not love her, 

RB 605 
Song, The Queen's (Chastelard), Sw 872 
Song from Charles the first, Sh 369 
Song from Hellas, Sh 367 
Song from Mary Stuart, Sw 899 
Song from Ogier the Dane, M 855 
Song from Osorio, C 73 
Song from the Sisters, T 549 
Song from the story of Acontius and Cy- 

dippe, M 855 



Song from the story of Cupid and Psyche, 

M854 
Song from Zapolya, C 101 
Song in time of order, Sw 866 
Song of Saul before his last battle, B 187 
Song of spirits (Prometheus unbound), Sh 

317 
Song of the echoes (Prometheus unbound), 

Sh 314 
Songs from Chastelard, Sw 871 
Songs from Perishtah's fancies, RB 681 
Sdiigs from Paracelsus, RB 568 
Songs in absence, CI 700 
Songs of Orpheus and the sirens (Life and 

death of Jason i, M 840 
Song-throe, The, R 802 
Song, The miller's daughter, T 463 
Song, Where shall the lover rest, Sc 126 
Sonnet, The, W 48, 58 
Sonnet, The, R 793 
Sonnet, England in 1819, Sh 297 
Sonnet on Chillon, B 206 
Sonnet, Political greatness, Sh 358 
Sonnet, Scorn not the, W 58 
Sonnets from the Portuguese, EBB 555 
Sonnets on the death of Robert Browning, 

Sw909 
Sonnets on the thought of death, CI 705 
Sonnet, To an octogenarian, W 63 
Sonnet to I^ake Leman, B 214 
Soon, O lanthe ! life is o'er, L 442 
Soothsay, R 810 

So then, I feel not deeply, L 455 
Soul's beauty, R 804 
Southey, On the death of, L 456 
Southey's death, On, L 457 
So we'll go no more a-roving, B 271 
Sparrow's nest. The, W 26 
Splendor falls on castle walls. The, T 498 
Stanzas, April, 1814, Sh 275 
Stanzas for music (There be none of 

beauty's daughters), B 189 
Stanzas for music (There's not a joy), B 187 
Stanzas for music (They say that hope is 

happiness), B 212 
Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, Ar 754 
Stanzas in memory of the author of Ober- 

mann, Ar 725 
Stanzas to Augusta, B 209 
Stanzas written in dejection near Naples, 

Sh 296 
Stanzas written on the road between Flor- 
ence and Pisa, B 271 
Statue and the bust, The, RB 637 
Stepping westwai'd, W 38 
Stilllwrn love, R 800 

Strange fits of passion have I known, \V 14 
Strayed reveller. The, Ar 710 
Stream of life. The, CI 702 
Stream's secret, The, R 789 
Sudden light, R 788 
Summer dawn, M 827 
Summer-night, A, Ar 721 
Summum bonum, RB 683 
Sunbows, The, Sw 905 
Sunrise in 1848, At the, R 778 



BRITISH POETS 



Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, Sc 164 

Superscription, A, R 807 

Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind, 

W 55 
Swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, T 

498 
Sweet and low, T 498 
Sweet-briar, Upon a, L 432 
Switzerland, From, Ar 756 
Switzerland, Thought of a Briton on the 

subjugation of, W 50 

Tables turned. The, W 9 

Taniar and the sea-nvmph. Loves of, L 426 

Tears, idle tears, T 497 

" There is no God," the wicked saith, CI 694 

There ! said a stripling, W 61 

There's a woman like a dewdrop, RB 602 

There was a boy, W 13 

Theseus and Hippolyta, L 457 

This lime-tree bower my prison, C 70 

This world is very odd, we see, CI 695 

Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot, On the 

deaths of, Sw 899 
Thomas Moore, To, B 234, 271 
Thought of a Briton on the subjugation of 

Switzerland, W 50 
Thought of death. Sonnets on the, CI 705 
Thrasymedes and Eunoe, L 444 
Three Roses, The, L 457 
Three shadows, R 809 
Three years she grew in sun and shower, 

W15 
Throstle, The, T 253 
Through a glass darkly, CI 699 
Through death to love, R 799 
Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr, RB 

593 
Thyrsis, Ar 757 
Thy voice is heard through rolling drums, 

T498 
Time, Sc 163 
Time, Sh 357 
Time long past, Sh 348 
Time real and imaginary, C 70 
Time's revenges, RB 606 
Time to be wise, L 441 
Tintern Abbey, Lines composed a few 

miles above, W 9 
Tithonus, T 535 
To— (I fear thy kisses), Sh 345 
To — (, Music when soft voices die), Sh 358 
To — (One word is too often profaned), Sh 

368 
To a bride, L 441 
To a cyclamen, L 442 
To a friend, Ar 708 
To age, L 455 
To a gentleman, C 99 
To a Highland girl. W 37 
To Ailsa Rock, K 389 
To a lady, Sc 108 
To a nightingale, Ode, K 408 
To a skv-lark, W 45 
To a sky-lark, \V 58 
To a skylark, Sh 344 



To Augusta, Stanzas, B 209 

To Augusta, Epistle, B 210 

To autumn, K 409 

To a young lady, AV 46 

To B. R. Haydon, W 55 

To Chaucer, Invocation (Life and death of 

Jason ), M 842 
To Coleridge, Sh 275 
To Hartley Coleridge, W 33 
To Hesperus, Sappho, L 437 
To Homer, K 389 
To lanthe, Lyrics, L 430, 441 
To Jane, With a guitar, Sh 368 
To Joseph Ablett, L 438 
TO KaMi\ CI. 688 
To Leigh Hunt Esq., K 380 
To Louis Kossuth, Sw 891 
To Marguerite, Ar 756, 757 
To Mary (Revolt of Islam), Sh 291 
To Mary Lamb, L 440 
To-morrow, Sh 368 
To Mr. Murray, B 270, 271 
To my ninth decade, L 458 
To my sister, W 8 
To-night, Sh 357 
To one who has been long in city pent, K 

373 
To Psyche, Ode, K 406 
To Robert Browning, L 443 
To sleep, W 50 
To sleep, K 423 
To solitude, K 372 
To the cuckoo, W 42 
To the daisy (three poems), W 34, 35 
To the moon, Sh 348 
To the Queen, T 513 

To the sea ( Life and death of Jason), M 839 
To the same flower (celandine), W 27 
To the same flower (daisy), W 35 
To the small celandine, W 27 
To the west wind, Ode, Sh 297 
To Thomas Moore, B 234, 271 
To Toussaint I'Oiiverture, '\J''32 
To Tranquility, Ode, C 94 
Touch him ne'er so lightly, RB 680 
Toussaint I'Ouverture, W 32 
To Virgil, T 5.50 
To William Wordsworth, C 99 
To Wordsworth, L 438 
To Wordsworth, Sh 603n. 
To Youth, L 4.54 
Tranquillity, Ode to, C 94 
Transfigured life, R 802 
Tray, RB 679 

Trees of the garden. The, R 806 
Triads, Sw 892 
Trosachs, The, W 60 
Troy Town, R 789 
True-love, an thou be true, Sc 164 
True woman, R 801 

Trumpet song f Coming of Arthur), T 540 
Twenty years hence, I, 442 
Twist ye, twine ye, even so, Sc 162 
Two April mornings. The, W 17 
Two in the Canipagna, RB 628 
Two poets of Croisic, The, RB 677 



INDKX OF TITLES 



923 



Ulysses, T 487 

vfivoq avfivo^, CI 699 

Unremitting voice of niglitly streams, The, 

W63 
Up at a villa— down in the city, RB 619 
Upon a sweet-briar, L 432 

Vale of Chamouni, In the, C 96 

Valley of Cauteretz, In the, T 539 

Various the roads of life, L 443 

Vastness, T 550 

Venetian pastoral, For a, R 779 

Venice (Childe Harold), B 234 

\'enus victrix, R 798 

Verse-making was least of my virtues (Fer- 

ishtah's fancies), RB 681 
Villon, Ballad of Fran(,«is, Sw 891 
Violet, On a faded, Sh 293 
Violet, The, So 108 
Virgil, To, T 550 
Vision of judgment. The, B 257 
Vision of sin, The, T 494 
Vivien's song ( Merlin and Vivien), T 524 
Voice and the peak. The, T 542 
Voice by the cedar-tree, A (Maud), T 519 
Voice of Toil, The, M 859 
Voyage, The, T 537 

Wages, T 540 [876 

Walter Savage Landor, In memory of, Sw 

Walt Whitman in America, To, Sw 866 

Wanting is— What, RB, 680 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, Sc 162 

Waterloo, Battle of, B 192 

We are seven, W 6 

Weirdlaw Hill, The sun upon the, Sc 164 

Wellington, Ode on the death of the Duke 

of, T 514 
Well I remember how you smiled, L 458 
Were you with me (Songs in absence), CI 

702 
West London, Ar 7()2 

Westminster Bridy:e, Composed upon, W 31 
West wind. Ode to the, Sh 297 
When a man hath no freedom, B 271 
When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face, 

L4:30 
When I have borne in memory, W 33 
When I have fears that I may cease to be, 

K381 
When the enemy is near thee, CI 695 
When the lamp is shattered, Sh 369 
When we two parted, B 171 
Where are the great, CI 695 
Where lies the land (Songs in absence), CI 

701 
Where shall the lover rest (MarmionJ, Sc 

126 
Whirl-blast from behind the hill, A, W 8 
Whitman, To Walt. Sw 8S() 
Who kill'd John Keats, B 271 
Why from the world (Ferishtah's fancies), 

RB 682 
Why I am a Liberal, RB 682 
Why, why, repine, L 440 



Will, T 524 

William and Helen, Sc 105 

William Shakespeare, Sw 899 

William Wordsworth, To, C 99 

Willow wood, R 799 

Wind, A word with the, Sw 908 

Wind, Ode to the west, Sh 297 

Winter Weather, M 824 

Wish no word unspoken (Ferishtah's fan- 
cies), RB 681 

With a guitar, To Jane, Sh 368 

With llowei-s from a Roman wall, Sc 108 

Without her, R 800 

With rosy hand a little girl pressed down, 
L442 

With whom is no variableness, CI 702 
Woman's last word, A, RB 617 
Woodspurge, The, R 788 
Wordsworth, To, Sh 276 
Wordsworth, To, L 438 
Wordsworth, To William, C 99 
Word with the wind. A, Sw 908 
Work without hope, C 101 
World is a bundle of hay, The, B 371 
AVorld is too much with us. The, W 50 
Worldly place, Ar 761 

World's great age begins anew. The, Sh 367 
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever, Sh 366 
World's wanderers. The, Sh 348 
Wrestling-match, The (Gebir), L 427 
Written among the Euganean Hills, Sh 293 
Written in dejection near Naples, Sh 2!^Ki 
Written in early spring, W 7 
Written in Kensington Gardens, Ar 724 
Written in London, W 32 
Written in March, W 26 
Written in the album at Elbingerode, C 93 
Written on the road between Florence and 
Pisa, B 271 

Yarrow revisited, W 59 

Yarrow unvisited, W 39 

Yarrow visited, W 54 

Year's at the spring. The (Pippa passes), RB 

576 
Years, many parti-colored years, L 455 
Yes, I write verses now and then, L 441 
Yes, it was the mountain echo, W 48 
Yew-trees, W 36 

You ask me why, tho' ill at ease, T 479 
You'll love me yet (Pippa passes), RB588 
Young lady. To a, W 46 
Young Lochinvar (Marmion), Sc 141 
You smiled, you spoke, L 442 
Youth, to, L 454 
Youth and age, C 101 
Youth and art, RB 666 
Youth and calm, Ar 761 
Youth of nature. The, Ar 719 
Youth of the year, The (Atalanta in Calj'- 

don), Sw 866 
Youth's antiphony, R 795 
Youth's spring-tribute, R 795 

Zapolya, Song from, C 101 



RDFe78 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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